I've Seen the Lights Go Out on Vegas
by Paul Benjamin Callahan
Summary: The Mojave is in trouble. The Courier doesn't care - he just wants to find thr guy who shot him in the head. However, trouble is on the horizon, and he'll be caught up in the middle of it...even if he doesn't want to be.
1. Prologue

**Part One**

_A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,_

_And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,_

_And the dry stone no sound of water._

_Only there is no shadow under this red rock,_

_(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),_

_And I will show you something different from either_

_Your shadow at morning striding behind you_

_Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;_

_I will show you fear in a handful of dust._

-T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land

War. War never changes.

Since the dawn of human kind, when man first discovered the killing power of rock and bone, war has been waged in the name of everything; from God to justice to simple, psychotic rage. It is merely human nature for men to fight, a flame that has remained, and will remain, lit for eternity.

However, in the year 2077, after thousands of years of armed conflict, the destructive nature of man could sustain itself no longer. Man plunged the earth into an abyss of nuclear fire and radiation. In a quick and decisive two hours, the Great War seemed to put out the flame of man.

Although, it was not, as some had predicted, the end of the world. Instead, the nuclear warheads and mushroom clouds ushered in the next chapter in human history; one which would equal its predecessor in bloodshed and conflict. Man had succeeded in destroying the world - but war never changes.

Thousands were spared the horror of nuclear exchange by Vaults - large underground structures built specifically to shelter those lucky enough to find refuge in the days leading up to the Great War. The steel doors of the vaults protected their inhabitants only briefly for when they slid open they had only the hell of the wastes to greet them. Though in rare numbers, many also survived the Great War out of Vaults, though the intense radiation turned them into beings known as Ghouls.

When the large Vault doors opened, their inhabitants set out across the wasteland of the old world, hoping to build new societies; establish new villages; form new tribes. Many also turned away from good ways of living, instead resorting to raiding, pillaging, and enslaving.

As decades passed, what had been the American southwest united beneath the flag of the New California Republic, a government dedicated to old world values of democracy, and the rule of law. As the Republic grew, so did its needs. Scouts spread east, seeking territory, wealth, and resources. They adventured into the vast Mojave Wasteland, where they brought back tales of a city where the nuclear warheads did not touch. A city of embellished with lights and sound, and filled with lively people and extravagant parties. A city dedicated to vice and sin. The city of New Vegas.

Past the neon casinos and wild parties, the NCR scouts brought reports of a giant wall, made of concrete, spanning the Colorado River; a wall which could supply the entire Mojave Wasteland with constant energy and clean, pure water.

The NCR mobilized its army, and sent it east to occupy the Hoover Dam, and restore it to working condition. But across the Colorado, a different society had arise. This society, created with the conquest of eighty-six tribes, was a vast army of slaves, ruled by a man who calls himself the son of Mars. This tribe is Caesar's Legion.

One year has passed since the NCR defended Hoover Dam from Legion invasion - if only just barely. Instead of retreating, the Legion sits on the opposite side of the Colorado and gathers strength, the sound of war drums beating.

Through the trials and tribulation, the New Vegas Strip has remained open, under control by its mysterious overseer, Mr. House. His army of police robots and rehabilitated tribals keeps the Strip in constant business. The Mojave Express carries letters and other correspondence for the rest of the Mojave, its many couriers traveling from the desert and even into NCR borders.

It is 2278, and the Mojave is about to face a very drastic change, caused by a seemingly nobody named Jeremiah Winters.

But war; war never changes.

* * *

"Take it easy. Breathe slow. If he makes any moves, take him down." Sergeant 1st Class Jeremiah Winters said, looking through the scope of his rifle. Beside him, 2nd Lieutenant Craig Boone peered at the target from his own scope.

He smirked. "I got it. I've done this before."

The two were situated on Coyote Tail Ridge, overlooking the settlement of Bitter Springs. They had come as part of a small detachment of New California Republic soldiers, under the command of Major Gilles and their C.O., then Captain Dhatri, to surround the small village. NCR General Lee Oliver sent Gilles and her battalion, with orders to "render any tribal harmless." First Recon, being second only to the NCR Rangers in lethality, sent the bulk of their roster to assist the regular troopers, since the Rangers were not supposed to deal with such petty assignments.

And so, the sharpshooters of First Recon traveled east, ready to deal death to any who stood against.

At present, the two snipers watched the road leading out of Bitter Springs. Darkness was beginning to set in. A Khan was standing near the mouth of the canyon that surrounded the village, one the NCR dubbed Canyon 37. He was staring back west towards the neon lights of New Vegas, which one could see from nearly every vantage point in the Mojave.

"You think we'll get a pass for leave after this?" Jeremiah asked his comrade.

"Probably. What will you do?" Boone asked in reply.

"I'm not really sure, seeing as we haven't gotten a leave since before Hoover Dam. I may head out west, visit my parents in Shady Sands. Or go spend some caps in Vegas or Reno. Will you go visit your woman in Vegas?"

Boone smiled, as he often did when his love, Carla, was mentioned. Jeremiah didn't blame him; she was quite the woman. Attractice, smart _and _street smart, Craig met her while on leave in Vegas, four years ago. The two had immediately hit off, and Boone had returned to see her nearly everytime he got a chance. Jeremiah was almost jealous, seeing as though he hadn't been able to keep a consistent relationship since his days in California. "Yeah. And plus, with the Legion at bay since Hoover Dam, there isn't much to worry about," Boone said, grinning still.

Jeremiah nodded. The battle for Hoover Dam had shown that the NCR was not all bark. They had, at least some, bite. Even with the Legion presence in the wasteland, people seemed to feel secure. At least until the Legion made itself known as a powerhouse again.

The sound of heavy footfalls crunching dirt met their ears, and they turned to see Major Gilles leading the remaining First Recon snipers up Coyote Tail Ridge. Captain Dhatri ushered First Recon to their feet. Gilles, short compared to Jeremiah's six-four and Boone's six-two, made up for what she lost in stature in leadership and valor. Jeremiah thought of her as the poster-woman of the NCR. A true patriot.

Hastily, Boone began to scramble to attention. Jeremiah followed. Their fellow snipers did the same. Dhatri snapped a smart military salute, and the rest of the unit followed.

The major waved them off. "Good evening, soldiers. I just received word that the Khans are about to attempt an escape from Bitter Springs. I have already moved the rest of the company into position, across from this ridge. First Recon will assist from here. Your orders are to fire on all Khans you see leaving the village. No exceptions."

Boone nodded. "Rules of engagement?"

"Fire until out of ammunition," she replied.

Solemnly, the snipers of First Recon nodded. Orders were orders, and they had to be followed. NCR soldiers, especially those in the units of First Recon or the Rangers, were trained to never question orders. They were trained to act on instinct.

Taking their position again on the ground near the crest of the ridge, Boone and Jeremiah watched the mouth of the canyon. The remainder of First Recon set up around them, doing the same.

Across the small road that led into the canyon, the snipers could faintly make out the silhouettes of the NCR troopers.

Silently, they waited. An hour passed, then two.

Darkness soon surrounded the small fighting force. Even the moon, full, hid behind the clouds, as if a sense of impending doom had scared it away. A drape seemed to have been pulled on the area around Bitter Springs. All was calm and quiet.

Silently, they waited. Three hours passed, then four.

As late-night turned into early morning, Jeremiah began to doze off on his rifle, having watched the road for nearly five hours. However, as soon as his forehead hit the scope on his rifle, he felt Boone nudge him, and faintly heard him whisper a single word.

"Showtime."

Raising his head, he looked back at the canyon. Even through his scope, Jeremiah saw nothing. No shadowy figures moving, or even the metallic flash of light glinting off a gun.

"Craig, what are you loo-" he was cut short by movement, coming from the mouth of the canyon. Slow, cautious movement. Lots of it.

Great Khans. Hundreds of them. Slowly making their way out of the canyon, down the road and towards Lake Mead. Towards the NCR ambush. Jeremiah fidgeted in his position on the ground. Through the scope, he also saw something that made him catch his breath.

These Great Khans weren't all the savage tribals the General and his commanding officers said they were. Jeremiah saw children, women, elderly, and the infirm, all making their way down the road, as well as the physically fit men who acted as bodyguards.

Jeremiah quickly thought about what they had been told.

'Your orders are to fire on all Khans you see leaving the village. No exceptions.'

Major Gilles' words haunted him. Had there been a communication error? An intelligence report gone bad? He knew the brass at Camp McCarram would never knowingly order them to fire on unarmed persons. It was against everything they had been taught.

Or would they?

The rules of engagment told him to fire until out of ammunition. They didn't specify to _armed males_, they simply said 'fire until out of ammunition.' Those were his _orders. _

Silently, in the dark, Jeremiah questioned his _orders_. It was the one thing they taught everyone in basic training. You _never_ question _orders_, simply put. Especially not those given against the enemy. Great Khans were the enemy.

Jeremiah questioned himself. Though he had become a soldier, and a First Recon sharpshooter at that, Jeremiah sought his moral code. The moral code he had become a soldier to protect. To obey these orders violated that moral code.

But he had been ordered that there were no exceptions.

Turning to Boone, Jeremiah whispered, "Craig, there are women and children out there. I can't shoot them."

Slowly, Boone nodded. "I know, I see them. I don't want to shoot either..."

"Then why don't we-"

"...but orders are orders. We have to follow them. We can't change them. Are you going to lose your job and your pay over it? Don't think, just shoot. Close your eyes if you have to. Don't look at where you shoot. I wish I could change it, but I can't. You heard Gilles."

"Yeah, I know I did."

_No exceptions._

Jeremiah looked around at Recon. The group, seemingly all at once, turned their head to Captain Dhatri. The captain, in turn, pulled out a small field radio.

"This is Lone Wolf, calling for Wolf Pack. Requesting target confirmation and rules of engagement, over." Static filled the air for a brief moment, before Major Gilles replied. Her voice sounded distant, and warbled. Only small bits could be heard over the crackling radio.

"This is Wolf Pack...contact engaged...no change...engagement," Gilles' cryptic message seemed to suck the air out of Recon. Dhatri coughed nervously, and pushed the transmit button again.

"Wolf Pack, we have women and children in our sights. Requesting change in the rules of engagement, over."

"Repeat...can't read five-by...prepare to engage..."

Dhatri was scared, the unit could tell. Something was wrong with the transmission. On his other side, Jeremiah thought he heard Frank Gorobets whisper, "Holy shit..."

"I repeat," Dhatri tried again, "there are _women and children_ in the canyon. Request a change in the rules of engagement." Static came back over the radio, and then the NCR battalion was firing from the other side of the canyon.

"Wolf Pack, acknowledge!" Dhatri screamed. First Recon watched in horror as their comrades lit the canyon with their fire, covering the Khan force. Static came back over the radio.

"Captain, orders?" Boone asked.

Dhatri ignored him; he was yelling into the radio. "Wolf Pack, acknowledge! You are firing on women and children!"

All of Recon's eyes watched as fear and uncertainty dawned on their captain's face. Jeremiah and Boone exchanged worried glances.

"Captain Dhatri, what are our orders?" Jeremiah asked.

Setting down the radio, Dhatri turned to him. Jeremiah almost gasped. The captain's face was full of fear. His eyes glistened in the moonlight. Sweat beaded on his forehead. In that moment, Jeremiah knew he was looking upon the face of a man who was condemning himself.

"You heard the Major," his voice broke. "Fire until out of ammunition."

The rifles of First Recon reigned on the Khans. After a few moments, screams echoed off of Canyon 37's walls.

In his immediate area, .308 gunshots BOOMED from the rifles of First Recon. Across the road, the sharp _Crack!_ of the troopers' service rifles and repeaters reached his ears. Against his will, he felt his gun recoil at his shots. Five shots and reload, just like he had been trained. Beside him, Boone's rifle echoed in his ears, with more-than-likely deadly proficiency.

The Khans had started running as soon as the bullets came down. Jeremiah wasn't sure, but it looked to him like they were all running. There weren't, or didn't appear to be, any that fought back. And if any did, they were almost certainly caught in the lethal crossfire. Some were lucky enough to run the gauntlet successfully, and made it to the pure water of Lake Mead, and into the Bitter Springs Recreation Area. Most, however, were mowed twice-over by the gunshots of the NCR soldiers.

Jeremiah felt the recoil of his rifle. Screams filled the air; painful replies to the death dealers' gunshots. He realized that his eyes were closed, protected from the horror that was taking place. His heart ached; it felt like a crazed man was trying to escape from his chest. Tears filled his eyes as the gunshots continued. Boone had stopped too. Jeremiah felt his head hit the ground. He screamed.

In all, it took five minutes.

* * *

At first light, when Major Gilles woke the sleeping troopers, her orders were strict, and her voice was unwavering.

"Clean up."

The sight that greeted the soldiers as they crested Coyote Tail Ridge was appalling. Bodies littered the road, Great Khans of varying age, gender, and physical state. Young, old, male, female, weak, strong, it did not matter. They lay strewn on the dirt, some with faces skyward, some in the blood that ran in the road. Jeremiah didn't count the number of bodies. He had no desire to count them. All he wanted to do was clean up; his orders.

During the aftermath, the five hours it took to remove the bodies and bury them all, he looked at Boone once. Craig Boone looked different. His jaw was set, his eyes were cold, and his face had the look of a man who questioned everything he had been taught.

In a way, Jeremiah thought he would look the same. Deep inside, he knew he had been changed. He knew he had lost all faith in this system; the NCR military. They were as cold-hearted as the tribals they fought against.

Later that night, in his tent, he collapsed and cried himself to sleep for the first time in a long time.

* * *

**One Year Later**

The year was 2279.

Soon after the events at Bitter Springs, Caesar's Legion returned after defeating the NCR in the battles of Willow Beach and the Arizona Spillway. However, Jeremiah Winters no longer called himself a soldier in the New California Republic Army. Now, the two things that kept him connected to his service years was his red First Recon beret and his rifle.

And still, the Bitter Springs Massacre still haunted Jeremiah Winters.

After the NCR found out about the "incident" (as it was referred to at McCarran), Major Gilles was demoted to the rank of Captain, her new station being to watch over the refugees and settlers at the NCR's newest refugee outpost...Bitter Springs.

It didn't take long for Jeremiah and Boone, the two deadliest sharpshooters in First Recon, to request discharge from their commanding officers. Reluctantly, he gave it to them. Boone went to New Vegas, married his sweetheart Carla, and settled in the town of Novac.

Jeremiah Winters, unable to face his family or friends back in California, wandered for a few weeks. Finding that he had insufficient funds to gain entrance to the New Vegas Strip, he settled in Freeside, rented a room at the Atomic Wrangler, and was soon drinking away his troubles with alcohol, and throwing away his soldier's pay at the blackjack tables.

One year later, he sat at a table in the Atomic Wrangler with a mug of hot coffee in one hand, his First Recon beret in the other.

Slowly, he traced the logo with his thumb, pulling the finger over the bear skull, and the two crossed rifles behind it. He read the motto to himself:

"'The last thing you never see.'"

He put the beret on his knee, and sat staring at the table in front of him. The Garrett twins had taken pity on him at first, giving him free drinks and a free room for a few nights. Once they realized his money would be continuous, they started filling up his tab.

Jeremiah sighed, and put his face in his empty hand, sipping on the coffee.

A few local punks came in and looked around. Their eyes landed on Jeremiah in his chair, and one of them laughed before turning to his companions.

"Look'ee what we got here, fellas! A soldier boy! But what's he doin' here? Shouldn't he be out fightin'? Or making a fool of himself, just like the rest of the NCR?" His friends laughed. These punks belonged to the local gang known as The Kings. These Kings devoted themselves to the study and near-worship of a man known as "The King." Not-so-surprisingly, their leader was a man who looked, sounded, and lived nearly indentical to this man. Not-so-surprisingly, their leader's name was "The King." Leather jackets and slick backed hair was the typical uniform of a King; these thugs were no different.

Jeremiah paid no attention to him. This happened regularly in Freeside. Most of the residents resented the NCR. Many felt this way on account of how many soldiers spent their leave on the Strip and in Freeside, becoming drunk and harassing locals. Others just figured they were like their counterparts, even if they weren't. Jeremiah shrugged, he didn't really care either way. He was a proud NCR citizen, even if he disliked the military.

The punks came over. There were four of them. All regular size. The biggest, whom Jeremiah guessed was the leader, kept talking.

"Whats the matter, soldier boy? Forgot how to speak? Drink got your tongue?" The three other thugs snickered at their charismatic leader.

Sighing again, Jeremiah replied, "Nope. I forgot to remember to forget."

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Leave me alone, kid. I don't got anything for you."

"Well, maybe not, but listen here, soldier boy. See, me and my pals, we don't like your kind here in Freeside. We've seen you around. Thought it might be time to go ass-kickin'. So here's the deal: you either can leave now, or else we escort you out."

Slowly, Jeremiah looked him and his friends over. "You won't be able to escort me out, if it comes to that."

The punk was caught off guard. His cockiness faltered. Looking around nervously, he looked for support from the locals. No one seemed to be paying much attention, except for James Garrett at the bar. Finally, he spoke again in his arrogant voice. "Come on, soldier boy. Get out."

"I'm not finished with my coffee." Jeremiah said, looking down at his half-full, steaming mug of coffee. The mug was porcelain, with a thick lip.

"What was that?" The punk asked, moving closer.

"I said," Jeremiah threw the remainder of his coffee from the mug into the punk's face, causing him to yelp and grasp at the hot liquid. Using the distraction, Jeremiah swung the porcelain mug into the kid's head, hard enough that it broke. The punk stumbled, and Jeremiah caught him by his head and slammed him into the table, breaking it. Lastly, Jeremiah issued the punk a swift kick to the stomach, connecting with a few ribs.

As he stepped away from the groaning figure on the floor, one of the punk's friends launched himself forward. A jab nearly caught Jeremiah in the nose, but his left hand swatted the fist away, and he used momentum to force his right hand down onto the kid's wrist, breaking it. Jeremiah took the kid, holding his wrist in agony, by the head, and brought him down to meet his knee.

A second figure was tossed to the floor to rest by his friend, knocked out stone cold. The two other thugs got smart quick, and charged at the same time. One threw a right hook, but Jeremiah crossed both arms and blocked the punch. The other thug, however, was able to get close enough for a shot to the side. Jeremiah winced as the fist landed near his kidney.

Spinning, Jeremiah planted his left elbow into the man's temple. He collapsed, one hand holding his head, which probably had a splitting headache. As he fell, his left hand pulled a switchblade from his pocket. Seeing this, Jeremiah groaned internally. He hated knives.

Using the lull in the fight, the unarmed King wrapped Jeremiah in a choke hold, his arm around his neck. Struggling to stand, the knife-wielding King smiled, seeing his chance. Jeremiah was calm, however, and knew this fight was already over.

Jeremiah released his left arm from between himself and the thug, and brought his elbow hard back into his attacker's rib cage. He heard the cracking sound of two ribs, and heard the air escape the man's lungs. The choke hold was released. The King holding the switchblade, still hunched over, saw his chance was over, and his eyes went wide. Jeremiah quickly moved forward a step and threw his right foot into the man's groin. He fell onto all fours, the switchblade fell from his hand. Jeremiah never hesitated; his right foot connected with the man's throat. The thug began to gag, and one hand went to his throat, massaging it. Again, Jeremiah threw a right kick. This time he aimed for the face. The punk fell over, unconscious.

Jeremiah turned and faced down the fourth King, already standing after taking his elbow. Wide-eyed, he began backing away from his three downed friends. Rolling his eyes, Jeremiah slowly walked over to him, pointed at the door, and began counting to three.

On two, the kid saw what he was doing and began to move to the door. However, on two was when Jeremiah's fist hit home. He left the kid holding his newly broken nose against the wall of the Wrangler.

"I said, I'm not finished with my coffee." Jeremiah announced, standing amidst the four Kings.

James Garrett stared open mouthed. After a few moments of silence other than murmurs from spectators, he began to laugh and clap his hands. Jeremiah looked at him peculiarly. "You always were quite the show, Winters," he chuckled. However, his laugh was soon replaced by a confused cough as Jeremiah walked to the counter, and paused long enough to throw some bottlecaps and NCR dollars onto the bar.

"That's enough to cover the table and mug. I'm leaving now, probably for some time. Rent my room to others, but keep my tab. I'll be back."

"Where you going? Do you have money?" he asked.

"I'm going to find a job. I'm tired of being a dischargee who is draining his life in sorrow and drink. I hear there's good pay to be a courier for the Mojave Express. I'll head to Primm. I think that's where the local chapter is holed up. I don't know when I'll be back, but when I do, I'll pay for my tab. How much is it?"

James quickly left the room and returned with a slip of paper labled "Winters" and read the number off, "One thousand, two hundred fifty caps. Or NCR dollars, whatever."

Jeremiah reached across the bar and patted him on the shoulder, "Good man. You keep running a tight ship here, don't worry about me. I'll stay out of trouble."

James Garrett could only manage a slight grunt as he watched Jeremiah walk out of the Wrangler. As soon as he left, he quickly calmed down his other customers, and then went to see about the four punks.

Jeremiah Winters, walking through the streets of Freeside, laughed before rubbing his fist.

"Who would've known? First Recon soldier to courier in a year. When will you ever settle down, Jeremiah?" he laughed.

Indeed, it was a strange occurence. Though strange, he became one of the Mojave Express' key couriers, and he carried packages as far as Arroyo and New Reno.

In 2281, however, he was given a package that he was to deliver to Mr. House, the strange overseer of the New Vegas Strip. The package, apparently important, was nothing more than a platinum poker chip.

Jeremiah Winters got as far as the settlement of Goodsprings, on Interstate 15.

Because there, a man in a checkered coat came to steal the platinum chip, in a move that would change Jeremiah's life, and perhaps change the very Mojave Wasteland.

And after stealing the platinum chip, the man in the checkered coat shot the courier in the head, and left him in a shallow grave under the Goodsprings water tower.

This would prove to be a mistake that would change everything about the Mojave, for a long time to come.


	2. Ain't That a Kick in the Head?

Chapter 1

Jeremiah had never woken up in captivity before.

The last thing he remembered was that he had been heading towards some settlement called Goodsprings, off of I-15. Then he had been hit. Now, he guessed he was a prisoner. His eyes slowly opened, and he immediately felt a throb on the back of his head. Oh yeah, he had definitely been hit. With maybe a shovel? A baseball bat? His hands were bound at the wrist by what appeared to be shipping rope, and his feet were bound by the same at the ankles.

"You got what you were after, now pay up," a gruff voice said. Jeremiah opened his eyes fully, and he saw his captors. Four Great Khans and some Yuppie in a checkered suit. Two of the Khans looked tough. A black guy with a muttonstache, and another big white guy. The two others were nothing, two scrawny white guys. The city-slicker looked like a real asshole. He was the full deal: expensive cologne and greased back hair and everything. The black Khan had spoken.

The guy in the suit turned to face the Khan, and replied, "You're cryin' in the rain, pally." He took a cigarette out of his coat pocket, and lit it.

Slowly, Jeremiah moved to sit up. One of the skinny white Khans, one with a spiked mohawk, noticed him.

"Hey, look who's wakin' up over here," he said.

The man in the checkered coat turned around, and Jeremiah got his first good look at him. He was roughly six two, Jeremiah guessed probably a hundred and eighty pounds. His face was not quite gaunt, but not really fat. It was big, yet defined. Jeremiah guessed he was muscular under the checkered suit.

A real, honest-to-goodness Yuppie asshole. _Probably from the Strip_, Jeremiah thought.

"Time to cash out," the city-boy said, after throwing his cigarette on the ground and stomping it into the dust.

"Would you get it over with?" the black Khan said to him.

"Listen, McMurphy, maybe Khans kill people without looking them in the face, but I ain't a fink, _dig_?"

The Khan, McMurphy shrugged and turned to look at Jeremiah. "It's your ass, Benny."

The man in the checkered suit, Benny, reached into his jacket and pulled out the platinum chip Jeremiah was supposed to deliver to the Strip.

Holding it so Jeremiah could see, Benny addressed him, "You've made your last delivery, kid. Sorry you got twisted up in this scene." Benny put the platinum poker chip back into his pocket. What he pulled out next made Jeremiah's eyes go wide:

A nickel-plated pistol. Yep, this guy was an asshole.

Jeremiah squinted. It looked to be a nine-millimeter; Jeremiah had one of his own in his rawhide pack. Not nickel-plated, of course. Benny noticed his stare.

"From where you're kneeling, it must seem like an eighteen-karat run of bad luck."

He paused, taking his time to level the gun with the Courier's head. Jeremiah sat up straight, staring down the muzzle of the pistol. He wasn't afraid to die. Jeremiah had realized that after Bitter Springs. In fact, he welcomed death. His bad doings had caught up with him finally.

"But, truth is, the game was rigged from the start."

The nickel-plated pistol fired. The muzzle flashed.

* * *

Darkness.

The sound of a motor running entered his mind. _What the hell? _he thought. Everything was black. The sound of the motor was all he heard. _If this is the afterlife, then I've been robbed. Where's all the gold?_

Jeremiah decided that he may as well review what just happened. He had been intercepted. The Khans and Benny-the-asshole had been waiting for him. How had they known where he would be? _Doesn't matter now. _And what was the platinum chip? Decoration? Or was it something more?

Coming to terms with death isn't easy, even if you're prepared for it. Jeremiah struggled with coping with the reality that he would never be able to do anything again. Ever. Faintly, he tried reaching out. Nope, nothing. No feeling at all. Just the motor. _Someone needs to turn that damn thing off. _

Suddenly, something began to change. He actually _felt. _Jeremiah realized that he was laying on something. Something soft. Maybe the afterlife had cushions? Better than those lumpy pillows in the wasteland! Also, Jeremiah became aware of things. He felt air. He thought he was lying somewhere, and there were surroundings, not just blackness. _Now if I could just open my eyes..._

Light. A very bright light.

In fact, opening his eyes had never been more painful for him. Sluggishly, he raised a hand to his face, shielding his eyes from the harsh light that penetrated them. _What the hell is going on?_ Instinctively, Jeremiah used his other hand to feel around him. He was laying on a mattress. Besides that, he couldn't tell where he was.

His eyes hurt too damn bad.

Slowly, he opened his eyes.

A ceiling fan blurred into his vision. The source of that damn motor noise. The fan rotated above him. It was attatched to a tan ceiling. The ceiling plaster was cracked, making it out to be old. He groaned, the light still bothering him. The sound of hurried footsteps entered his hearing. They grew closer. A creaking sound, and finally, a voice.

"You're awake. How 'bout that," said a gentle man to his left.

Groaning, Jeremiah tried to sit up. Pain shot through his head. Closing his eyes again, he put both hands on his forehead, massaging the pain away.

"Hey, hey, easy now," large, reassuring hands helped guide him all the way up. "You've been out cold for a couple of days now. I'm Doc Mitchell, welcome to Goodsprings."

Opening his eyes, a man close to fifty entered his vision. The man had a partially bald head, the hair that was there being white. He sported a thick mustache, and was wearing black prospector's clothing. Odd, for a doctor.

"W-What happened, Doc?" Jeremiah asked, massaging both temples.

"Well, you got shot in the head, son," he replied, matter-of-factly.

_Oh, right. _

"For a few days, I thought you weren't ever going to wake up. Lucky for you that big metal fella dug you up and brought you to me. Can you tell me your name?"

_"Metal fella?" _Jeremiah reckoned he would save his questions for later.

"Winters. Jeremiah Winters," he groaned.

"Well, Mr. Jeremiah Winters, you are the first gunshot wound I've seen in a while. Heck, I haven't performed an operation in over two years. Now, I take pride in my needle work, but you'll have a nasty scar on your left half. Take a look." Mitchell handed him a RobCo Reflectron, and Jeremiah took a look at himself.

Nothing looked out of place: his brown close cropped hair was in one piece, and all his facial features were in order. In all aspects, he was a handsome man. His face was gaunt, yet defined. He wasn't overly muscular; he had never been. All that mattered was that he was fit, and that he had always been. He stroked the beginnings of a beard, leading from one ear to the other. With one finger he traced its outline.

The finger stopped when it reached his left ear.

A large scar had begun to form. It ran from the top of his ear to the middle of his forehead, above his left eyebrow. It was red and clean. The doctor had done a very nice job. No infection, most likely. Not yet, anyway. The placement of the scar bothered him. Confused, he tried to remember the gunshot, and how he had sat up when Benny leveled the gun at him.

His conclusion: he had flinched left as the trigger was pulled, leaving his skull perpendicular to the nine millimeter.

_How that bullet missed my brain, I'll never know. Divine intervention. _

He gave a short chuckle as he handed the Reflectron back to Mitchell.

"You feel like gettin' up? Maybe movin' into the kitchen? I'll fix up some grub. I could imagine you're a bit hungry."

"Sure, doc. Nothing big. A box of Sugar Bombs and coffee will go a long way." Jeremiah loved his Sugar Bombs.

"Alright then," Mitchell said, rising from the chair, "here, I got you a cane to walk, just in case you need it."

Jeremiah ran his hand over the dark wood of the cane. The head was gold, and it made the whole device look like an unproportional letter L.

"Thanks, doc. For everything," Jeremiah said, graciously.

"Don't mention it," Doc Mitchell replied, humbly.

Jeremiah tried standing up once, without the cane. As soon as he got on his feet, his legs seized up, muscles straining. He tilted forward, causing Mitchell to catch him before he fell. Using the cane, Jeremiah stabilized himself.

Jeremiah looked around until his eyes fell on his rawhide Mojave Express backpack. He picked it up, straining because of his soreness. Mitchell directed him to the bathroom. It was out of the large room they were in, down the hall. Once there, Jeremiah looked at himself again in the mirror. He traced his jaw line where the beard was going to be, and smiled. Since his teen years, he had always considered himself attractive. The curves of his face were nice and defined, and his hair was long enough to keep it interesting, yet short enough to look kept. He sighed, and shrugged off his backpack. Reaching inside, he took out a white cotton pullover, a pair of hiking boots, and a worn pair of jeans. He glanced at his body, as he was in only his undergarments. Bruises spotted up and down his body. Shrugging, he finally retrieve his brown parka. Putting his clothes on, he took a deep breath before walking back into the room.

_The Khans must have beat me or something while I was unconscious. Maybe they knew I was at Bitter Springs. They might have found my beret in my pack._

Mitchell began to lead a hobbling Jeremiah across the room. Looking around, Jeremiah thought the room to be pretty typical of Mojave Wasteland housing. It was wood-paneled, and had hardwood floors. The ceiling was made of the same cracked plaster. The room was big, with an operating table, bed, and other various medical equipment a doctor might need. However, one thing in the room caught Jeremiah's eye.

It was a Vit-o-Matic Vigor Tester.

Jeremiah hadn't seen one of these Pre-War machines since he made a delivery to New Reno. They were popular among bars and saloons, as they made drunks feel manly and better about themselves. This one was not much different. It had seven categories, all of which were numbered from one to ten, one being the lowest rating, ten being the highest. The user would squeeze the handle, and the bulbs beside the numbers would flash and land on whatever the machine thought the user was. Also beside each number was a name that told the user what they were.

The categories were strength, perception, endurance, charisma, intelligence, agility, and luck. SPECIAL. The machine's theme looked to be cowboys and the American West.

Mitchell saw his curiosity.

"Go ahead, try it. Most of my patients do."

Clamping down on the handle, Jeremiah squeezed with all his strength.

The machine responded. The bulbs of light began to flash on the categories, and began to run up and down their respective groups until landing on a solitary number. Jeremiah looked over his results.

For strength he had scored a six, making him 'Barrel-Chested.' Jeremiah shrugged. Normally, people took him for strong, being six-four and weighing two hundred and fifteen pounds. In truth, he was not. The NCR had made him fit for battle and mentally strong. Hell, they tried to persuade him to join the Rangers. He passed the Ranger test course. His passion was marksmanship, however. Shooting cans in North Vegas with his best friend Craig Boone when they both left home had excited him. He didn't care about being physically strong. Jeremiah's philosophy was that if you hit first and hit hard, it didn't matter how big or strong the other guy was.

In perception, the machine gave him a nine, earning him the title 'Sniper Hawk.' Jeremiah smiled. That was from his time in First Recon. They trained him to be alert and always aware of what was going on.

A seven on endurance made him 'Tough-as-Nails.'

"Not very high, considering you survived a gunshot to the head." Doc Mitchell observed. Jeremiah laughed. _The old man has a point, doesn't he?_

Charisma turned out to be the one that surprised Jeremiah. The Vit-o-Matic Vigor Tester had given him a nine. He was a 'Casanova.' Jeremiah laughed. He had never seriously considered himself anything more than just a smooth-talker. However, his father was mayor of Shady Sands, back in the NCR.

Intelligence turned out to be a six, though Jeremiah knew he was not 'Gifted.' His parents had taught him all he knew. Well, his father and his grandparents. His mother, a hard-worker all her life, had never taken to getting an education herself. Slowly, he shook his head and chuckled to himself. He was smart when it counted, and that was all that mattered.

In agility he scored a seven, making him a 'Knife Thrower.' Raising an eyebrow, Jeremiah tried to remember a time he had ever thrown a knife. None came to mind.

And last, in the category of luck, Jeremiah scored a ten, making him the equivalent of a 'Two-Headed Coin Flip.' Doc Mitchell laughed again, and Jeremiah turned to him. "I don't get that one. I've never been lucky my entire life."

"Well son, you did survive a gunshot to the head. That's sounds pretty lucky to me."

Jeremiah thought about it, and finally nodded.

* * *

To the east, the small town of Novac held its own against Caesar's Legion. Nelson, a settlement a few miles east, had recently been raided by the Legion, and wrestled from NCR control. Novac heard the news on the radio, and they wondered why Camp Forlorn Hope, barely a mile from Nelson, never sent any reinforcements. Forlorn Hope was the closest NCR outpost to the Colorado before Hoover Dam, making it extremely important. Novac's residents didn't really care, however.

After all, the NCR's business was theirs.

Craig Boone walked out of the ten-feet-tall dinosaur that seemed to symbolize the town, and headed for his motel room. He worked night shifts, up in the dino's mouth, rifle in hand, watching for raiders and other unsavory figures. He hadn't seen anything lately. Nothing that mattered, anyway. He reached his room just as the sun peaked over the mountains in the east, and slowly opened the door.

The room was small and simple. It looked nearly identical to the other rooms in the motel. A main living room, which also doubled as the bedroom, a kitchen, and a bathroom. A television sat on one side, near his wardrobe. Across, the room opened up into a kitchen, complete with a counter and refrigerator. The bathroom was separated from the rest of the room. Surprisingly, everything in the bathroom worked; sink, toilet, and tub. The bathroom commodities were even pure; supplying unradiated water. Working bathrooms were a rare occurrence in the Mojave.

Boone walked to the kitchen, and opened the fridge door, peering inside for a drink. Normally he came off of the night shift tired, ready to sleep. The last three months, however, something had changed.

His wife and unborn child had been taken from him in the night, by Legion slavers. He remembered the night. His shift had just started, and the slaving party had taken the one route he couldn't see. They had known when to come, and to his surprise, they had only taken two slaves: Carla and the unborn baby.

The experience changed Craig Boone, inside and out. The once smiling, handsome military man was now a cold, stone faced night watchman. The source of light in his life...his happiness...had been taken from him in one swift night. And the worst of it was, he wasn't there for her when she needed him most.

Her kidnapping had changed everything. He started to drink more. Every night he came in, went to the fridge and opened a bottle of whiskey. He sat in the dark of his room, listening to the radio and drinking away the hours until he went out on watch. When, if he slept, it would only be for a few hours. Maybe six. Maybe. It didn't matter. Not to him.

Nothing mattered anymore. Well, one thing did.

The only thing that mattered to Craig Boone was killing Legionnaires. He longed for the day he could walk out of Novac and leave that life behind. Start wandering the wastes, hunting the Legion. He would never find his wife and child. There was no hope of that.

They were dead, and of that Boone was sure.

* * *

"You got any family, Mr. Winters?" Doc Mitchell asked his guest, pouring him a mug of coffee.

"Yes, and please, call me Jeremiah," he replied, taking the steaming mug carefully. "My folks live in Shady Sands, in the NCR. I had a brother. He left when I enlisted. Didn't say where he was going, just packed his bags one day and walked out."

"Sorry to hear that," Mitchell replied, sitting down across from Jeremiah at the kitchen table.

Jeremiah waved him off. "Don't worry about it. He was never much of a homebody. Always talked of traveling to the east, to see the remnants of the Old World, and something like that. If he tried, he is either dead or a slave by now. I had a sister, once, as well. One day, she was out running errands around Shady Sands. By nightfall, she hadn't come home, so me, my father, and Jonathan went looking for her. We asked the sheriff, and he told us some punks had gotten hold of her. Chem addicts, you probably know the type."

Mitchell nodded.

"Well, the druggies tore her up pretty bad. Did all kinds of impure things to her. Things that still make me angry, just thinkin' about them. Anyway, the sheriff told us that they were sitting in a cell in the jailhouse. Told us that we could do whatever we want. 'Wasteland Justice' he called it. So, my father, brother and I, we went to talk to the punks. Three of 'em, all sickly-looking. The drugs, probably. We didn't even say a word. Each of us got one, looking them square in the eye."

Mitchell nodded again, and started talking. "I grew up in one of them vaults. I know what its like to have something taken from you." His eyes grew downcast, and Jeremiah thought better than to try and pursue the subject.

A few minutes later, the two were standing at the front door. Mitchell stopped to shake hands with his patient.

"Look," he said as he handed Jeremiah his pack, "I gave the note a look. Thought it could find me a next of kin. Turns out it was just something about a platinum chip."

Jeremiah took the bag. "Thanks for patching me up, doc. I owe you one, big time."

"Don't mention it."

Mitchell then handed him a strange device Jeremiah had only seen on people that came from vaults.

"Here you go, my old Pip-Boy 3000. I don't get out much anymore, so you keep it. It can do a ton of things for you. It keeps stock of what you are carrying, including guns and ammunition. It has a map of the entire Mojave Wasteland, from the Mojave Outpost to Nellis Air Force Base. It tells the time, and can even be used to store data. Have fun."

Slipping the Pip-Boy over his left hand and around his wrist, Jeremiah suddenly felt it close tight, almost like his blood pressure was being taken. It began to whir and vibrate to life, and the screen flipped on.

Suddenly, he felt something prick the skin under his wrist, and a high beeping sound emitted from it. Slowly he realized that it had just attached itself to his arm. Jeremiah looked at Doc Mitchell, puzzled.

"Yeah, its attached now. To you. It has connected to every bodily system you have, and so now if you are ever injured, this thing can tell you what is wrong. It has a direct connection to your brain."

Jeremiah whistled. "That's pretty handy, doc."

Mitchell once again nodded. "One thing, though. It can't come off. Well, it can, but it doesn't want too. If it does come off without proper removal, it will be extremely painful. I didn't realize that until it was too late." Raising the sleeve to his right arm, Mitchell revealed his wrist.

Jeremiah gasped. His entire wrist was black. It looked very burnt, and circling the wrist was a scar, probably from the thing which stuck in your wrist. Staring at it made Jeremiah sick.

Mitchell smiled. "Take my word for it, it is very painful."

Jeremiah nodded. Mitchell then gave him one last look, clapped him on his shoulder, and walked down the hallway back toward his sitting room.

Reaching in his pack, Jeremiah checked the contents. There was his nine-millimeter, with three extra magazines of ammunition. Taking it out, he put it under his shirt in the small of his back. He pulled out his watch, a faded gold Rolex that he had received as payment, and put it on. He had a bag of bottlecaps, and a wallet full of NCR dollars, both to be used as currency. He pulled out the combat knife he had received after passing basic training, and strapped it to his hip. Sighing, he buckled the opening of the pack, and shouldered it.

With one last look back at the house, Jeremiah opened the door and walked into the Mojave Wasteland.


	3. Showdown in Goodsprings

**Novac**

They came early in the morning, around the end of his watch. Boone watched them pass the gas station and walk into the motel lobby. Three looked like Great Khans. One wore a black and white checkered suit, and had his hair slicked back with some type of product. The way they came from, he guessed they must have walked down around Searchlight, and must be traveling on Highway 95, all the way to the Strip.

They did not matter to him, however. Harmless travelers. They weren't worth his time, or his bullets.

As he walked back to his room at eight, he saw the daytime sniper, Manny Vargas, walking to take watch. Boone stopped him.

"Hey, you see the latest group come in?" he asked. Manny was ex-First Recon like Boone. He had not been at Bitter Springs, however.

"Yeah," Manny replied, "some Khans I used to know, when I ran with them. Some city-slicker from Vegas, too. Jeannie May wouldn't cut 'em a deal, so they'll be staying with me."

"What's the city-fella's name?"

"Don't know, haven't heard my friends say it. Don't care, he seems pretty pompous. All Vegas folk are," Manny said, grimacing.

"Okay, thanks. Good hunting," Boone ended the conversation. Slinging his rifle, he watched Manny trudge into the dinosaur, taking position in the mouth.

Sighing, Boone walked back into his room, and reaching it, flipped the lights off. Turning on a lamp, he walked to the kitchen and retrieved a bottle of beer. He opened it as he sat in an armchair, staring at the dark wall opposite him. In four swigs, the bottle was drained.

As he returned to the kitchen for another he saw two pictures on his bedside table. Leaning closer, he examined them: one was of him in his NCR uniform and First Recon beret, leaning on a rifle at Camp McCarran, having just joined the elite sniper unit. Beside him were then-Staff Sergeant Frank Gorobets and Lance Corporal Jeremiah Winters. All three wore smiles, gung-ho and ready to go.

The second picture was of him and Carla Boone, honeymooning on the Strip, soon after Boone left the military. In this, he also wore a smile, as well as her under his arm. From the background, it looked like they were in the Aces Theater, in The Tops Casino.

Boone sighed, and removed his beret. Setting it down beside the pictures, the slogan flashed through his mind.

'The last thing you never see.'

* * *

**Goodsprings**

Jeremiah had never expected to spend two days in the small town, though he felt obligated to repay the locals for their kindness and hospitality.

Almost as soon as he had walked from Doc Mitchell's front porch, the residents of Goodsprings quickly opened their arms to him. The bartender, Trudy, had given him a discount after he fixed her broken radio. Chet, the local general store owner, had filled him in on weapon modifications and surplus ammo, and even an old prospector had given Jeremiah a good talk about his golden days.

Now he sat in the Prospector Saloon, drinking coffee and scratching his beard. Returning from the restroom, he had taken his seat at the bar to find Trudy in an argument with a black man dressed in security-style body armor. He seemed to be yelling about a man named Ringo.

"If you don't hand Ringo over, me and my friends are gonna burn this town to the ground!" he yelled over the radio.

Trudy was the mother of the entire town. If it hadn't been for Sunny Smiles' fighting skills, she probably would have been sheriff too. Everyone went to Trudy when they had problems. And when Trudy wasn't around, they went to Sunny. Now, she faced down the furious black man. Stalwart as ever, she replied, "Yeah, well, if you're not going to buy anything, I suggest you get out."

Jeremiah smiled to himself. The man, frustrated, left the saloon angrily. Trudy returned to her position behind the bar.

Swiveling on his stool, he rested one hand on the bar, still eying the door, "What was that all about?" he asked Trudy.

"What? You mean Joe Cobb?" she asked. He nodded, and she continued, "Oh, well, see, a few days before you woke up we got this trader come through by the name of Ringo. He says that bad men were after him, and he needed a place to lay low for awhile. So we let him stay, thinking no one would show up."

Jeremiah could guess where this was headed. "But...?"

"Needless to say, Cobb showed up with some Powder Gangers."

"Some who?" Jeremiah couldn't mask the confused look on his face.

"Powder Gangers. Ex-convicts from the NCRCF prison down the road. Those fools love dynamite as much as Easy Pete."

Jeremiah nodded, and motioned for her to continue.

"See, Cobb comes up and tells us that Ringo killed some of his friends, and demands that we hand him over."

"What will you do?"

"Personally, I don't care if Ringo sneaks out one night and takes the Powder Gangers with him. Some people, like Sunny, may stick up for Ringo." Sunny Smiles was the local sheriff. She had taken Jeremiah gecko hunting after he left Mitchell's, making sure he could still shoot straight.

"Where is Ringo now?"

"He's holed up at the abandoned gas station up on the hill. See, a man like Cobb may act tough, but I'll wager he's afraid that Ringo would shoot him out a window as soon as he walks up there. Wouldn't say I'd be surprised if he didn't, either."

Jeremiah nodded, and threw some bottlecaps on the bar. Standing up, he headed for the door, and the gas station.

As he walked up to the derelict building, he opened the Sunset Sarsaparilla vending machine that sat next to the door. Reaching inside, he pulled two bottles out and turned to the door. He had it halfway open when a voice called out to him.

"One more step and you're a dead man."

Jeremiah froze, one foot inside, one hand on the door. He tried looking around in the dark interior, but his eyes were not fully adjusted. Thinking, he closed them to quicken their pace.

Opening them, he saw a man in an orange and yellow plaid shirt and overalls, pointing a black nine millimeter pistol at him. The man looked fairly young, Jeremiah guessed in his early twenties. He shuffled his feet as Jeremiah stepped into the building and raised his hands, two bottles of Sunset Sarsaparilla in each.

"Kid," Jeremiah said, "if you're going to shoot, you better not miss."

Ringo looked at him, two hands on the gun. Slowly, he lowered it.

"Sorry. Guess my current situation has me anxious. Why don't we start over with a friendly game of caravan?" Ringo asked, offering his hand. "Name's Ringo."

Jeremiah shook his hand. "Jeremiah Winters, Mojave Express. Up until recently, I guess." He handed the caravaneer a bottle of the Sarsaparilla, and the two opened and took long, awkward swallows. The taste was bitter. Jeremiah had never fancied the stuff. His non-alcoholic beverage of choice was Nuka-Cola. Or coffee, of course.

Declining the caravan offer, Jeremiah walked and sat down on the counter. He noticed Ringo had set up a mattress on the opposite side, and had stacked crates on the counter. For protection, he guessed.

"I heard through the grapevine that you are in a bit of a predicament." Jeremiah asked.

Ringo nodded. "Yeah, my caravan got ambushed in the I-15. They got both my guards, but I was able to take out a few of our attackers. Now, Joe Cobb and the Powder Gangers want my head on a platter."

"Well, my gun is available to you, if the need arises."

Ringo looked at him, questioningly. "You got any experience?"

"Eight years in the NCR. First Recon, although I could've been a Ranger. Made the rank of Sergeant 1st Class, and was deemed the second-best shot in the whole outfit." Talking about Recon made Jeremiah smile. One of the few smiles in the past year. Hell, one in the past three.

"Alright, that's a start. A damn good start. But we're still a bit short-handed." Jeremiah agreed. "Why don't you head down to the saloon and talk with Sunny Smiles? I'm sure she would help, and she may have ideas for rallying the whole town." Jeremiah nodded, and left in direction of the Prospector's Saloon. As soon as he was out the door of the gas station, he threw his bottle of Sunset Sarsaparilla on the ground, shattering it.

Halfway down the hill to the saloon, he heard wheels crunching the dirt behind him, coming up fast. Wheeling around, he swung his nine millimeter out of the holster.

Coming down the hill was a robot, one about as tell as he was. It rode on one wheel, and had a big screen in the middle of it. On the screen was the face of what appeared to be a cowboy. The metal mass rolled right up to Jeremiah, and much to his surprise, began to talk.

"Howdy partner! Might I say, you are looking fit as a fiddle!" It said in a voice unlike most robots. The voice showed emotion. Jeremiah raised an eyebrow.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Why, its your old pal Victor!" Victor tipped his cowboy hat that wasn't there. "Though you may not remember me. The first time we met I had to dig you out of a shallow grave in the cemetery! You had a nasty head wound then, too. I brought you over to Doc Mitchell's real quick." The one question Jeremiah had been wanting to ask was answered: how had he gotten to the doctor?

"So...you brought me to the doc?" Jeremiah asked, doubtfully.

"Yep! And here you are, right as rain!"

"How did you find me?"

"Well, I was around making my patrols that night. It was up by the cemetery when I saw some shady folk, so I laid low. Old fancy pants was talkin', something about a platinum chip. Then, he shot you and got one of the Khans to bury you! As soon as they left, I dug you up!"

Jeremiah nodded, giving in to Victor's story. "Well, thanks, I guess."

Victor tipped the invisible hat again. "Don't mention it! Happy trails!" And with a wave, he was off rolling towards the houses which lined up across from the saloon. Shaking his head, Jeremiah walked into the saloon. He quickly found Sunny Smiles, over at the jukebox with her dog, Cheyenne.

"Hey, sticking around Goodsprings for a while longer?" she asked as he made his way over to her.

"Yeah, me and Ringo are going to take on the Powder Gangers, and we were wondering if-"

"Say no more, I'm in." She cut him off. Seeing the relieved look on his face, she continued, "Though three guns aren't that good in a fight. Talk to Trudy, she may be able to convince more of the town to help."

Jeremiah thanked her, and went over to the bar, ready to haggle with Trudy. The clock was ticking down, and the ghost town gunfight was only hours away.

Walking up to the bar, he asked for a bottle of scotch. After handing it to him, Trudy looked him over.

"You seem to be getting around better, friend," she observed. Jeremiah nodded as he sipped on his scotch. The alcohol tasted good.

"Thanks you Victor and Doc Mitchell, I should be getting out of your hair pretty soon," he said through sips.

"I'm sure you're busy, doing your courier stuff and all. Anyway, I could imagine that you didn't just come here to drink and swap spit. What's up?"

Jeremiah knew he would have to be careful. Trudy was hard to persuade, he had seen that already. "I'm helping Ringo with the Powder Gangers. Helping the whole town really. I guess they pose as much a threat to the town as to him. Sunny agreed to help, too."

She raised an eyebrow. "Really? And so, what? I ain't any good with a gun..."

He shook his head. "No, its nothing like that. I'm just wondering if you could maybe scrounge us up a little militia. The town looks to you, Trudy. In the Old World, you could've been mayor."

Trudy seemed to be lost in thought. Jeremiah understood: she didn't want to put anyone's life in danger, but knew they would all be in danger going up against the Powder Gangers.

"Also," Jeremiah continued. "I wanted to ask if the miltia could use the saloon as a cover spot. It would be a good ambush site, and we could use the extra cover."

The offer lingered in the air for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, she nodded.

"Alright," she said. "I'll help. These Powder Gangers have been buggin' us for too long. I'll spread the word, try to get help. The saloon is yours, if you think you need it."

"Thanks a bunch," Jeremiah smiled at the bartender. He drained his scotch and walked out. Turning left, he passed the Goodsprings General Store, and kept walking, in the direction of Doc Mitchell's house. He hadn't noticed before, but the doctor's house sat on top of a hill, overlooking the town. Off to the right was the gas station. The house itself was nice; painted white with Old World architecture. Jeremiah thought it looked like one of those small Southern plantation he'd always read about.

Standing on the porch, Jeremiah knocked on the door. He had feet shuffling down the hallway, and then Doc Mitchell's bald head and mustache poked out from behind the door.

"Ah, hello again," he said, opening the door fully. "I hadn't hoped to see you again so soon."

Jeremiah shook his hand. "I'm not here for medical attention this time, Doc. This time it's more of a business call." Mitchell raised an eyebrow.

"The townsfolk is going to take on the Powder Gangers. We've decided to help Ringo, and I wanted to see if you had any spare supplies. Stimpaks, Med-X, the like..."

Mitchell sighed, and ushered Jeremiah inside. He led Jeremiah into his large room, and over to a set of shelves. The doctor began rummaging around the stuff that littered the shelf.

"The Powder Gangers, huh? Can't say that I blame you, but I can't say that that's much of a good idea," Mitchell said as he looked.

Jeremiah nodded. "Yes, but the townsfolk have had enough. They are doing this more for themselves than for Ringo, I reckon. Me, I'm just lending a helping hand," he announced.

"And a gun," Mitchell said. Jeremiah chuckled, and the doctore patted him on the shoulder.

"Here, take these," he said, handing a small sack over. Looking inside, Jeremiah saw it was about half full of stimpaks. "That should cover it, not counting for any major injuries. I'm guessing I should be around, just in case. When do you think it'll happen?"

"Maybe tonight, who knows?" Jeremiah shrugged. Doc Mitchell seemed to accept that, and nodded. The two shook hands and began walking back outside.

"Thanks again, Doc," Jeremiah said when they reached the door. The two shook hands again.

"You be careful now," Mitchell called as he shut the door.

Later that night, Jeremiah sat in the gas station with Ringo and Sunny. After Jeremiah left Mitchell's, he had called on Sunny to meet him at the gas station, to sit out the remainder of the day. The three now sat awaiting Trudy's call that the Powder Gangers had been spotted.

Around midnight, the call came down.

The three were interrupted in the middle of a game of poker by Trudy.

"Come quick! Powder Gangers are on the horizon."

Jeremiah and Sunny jumped up. Ringo crawled and grabbed his pistol from its resting place under his mattress. "How many?" he asked.

Trudy stopped short, thinking. "At least six, counting Cobb. There may be more, though."

They nodded. Ringo gathered his things in his Crimson Caravan Company satchel, and the four moved into the night. Running down the hill, Jeremiah squinted to the southeast, on the road out of town. The townsfolk had sent a runner down further along to monitor the road, and Jeremiah watched him run up the road towards the saloon.

The group reached the saloon, and Jeremiah turned to Trudy.

"Any luck with recruiting?"

"I got you two extra guns. They're behind the saloon, waiting for your order."

Nodding, Jeremiah moved to Ringo and Sunny. "Okay, I'll be behind the boxes off the road, you two get in between the saloon and general store. And Sunny, try to control Cheyenne. We don't need her trying to be a hero." Sunny smirked, and Ringo gave a slight chuckle. The two moved to their positions, and Jeremiah crouched behind two crates of Sunset Sarsaparilla.

Settling in, he felt his heart accelerate. He tried deep breathing to calm himself, and then set his pistol on the crates and tightened his parka.

Breath easy, he thought, shoot first, shoot fast, and shoot straight.

Looking to the roof of the saloon, he spotted Trudy attempting to get his attention. She made signals with her hands, showing that the enemy was close. Jeremiah nodded, and wielded his pistol.

Suddenly, as if remembering something, he reached into his rawhide pack and pulled out his red First Recon beret. He looked at it, running his finger over the logo and the slogan. He put it on, slipping it carefully into position on his head, like he had done so many times before.

Five minutes passed before Jeremiah saw movement on the road. Six dark silhouettes moving slowly up the road. As they got within fifty yards, four moved off into a depression in the ground near the houses, continuing their walk forward. Jeremiah shut his eyes, shielding them from the lights of the saloon sign, to retain his night vision. The Powder Gangers crept forward to thirty yards. Then twenty.

Jeremiah opened his eyes, and raised his pistol above the crates.

He opened his eyes just in time to see Cheyenne charge the two gangers on the road, barking up a storm. He heard Sunny cry out, and saw a bare-chested Powder Ganger raise what appeared to be a thick shotgun. Jeremiah pointed his pistol, and fired. Once...twice...three times.

The Powder Ganger fell, and all hell broke loose.

Gunfire erupted from the area around the saloon. Jeremiah almost immediately received shotgun fire from the gangers in the ditch. Ducking down, splinters from the crates rained on him. Cheyenne barked, and guns boomed. Raising his head, he saw the other ganger on the road had reached a boulder, and was firing a revolver from his position. Jeremiah noticed he seemed to be bulkier than most, maybe from the guard armor he wore.

_Cobb_, Jeremiah thought.

Ringo ran in front of the saloon, taking cover behind three fallen chairs. Sunny and the rest of the militia kept the gangers pinned down. Jeremiah, crouched behind the crates, heard what sounded like war cries, and looked up to see a ganger charging him with a baseball bat. Jeremiah shot him twice as he raised the bat. The ganger fell, bleeding from a wound in his neck. Raising his upper body off the ground, he pointed a revolver at Jeremiah.

Rolling forward out of the way, he heard the shot go off, and heard a pained yelp as it hit something near the saloon. Wheeling on his heels, Jeremiah shot the wounded ganger, this time killing him with a bullet to the head.

Taking his position again behind the crates, Jeremiah surveyed the gunfight. Three Powder Gangers appeared to be down, none of them Joe Cobb. That left three, two in the ditch, and Cobb by the boulder. A militiaman had been hit, but Jeremiah couldn't tell who. Looking at the two gangers in the ditch, Jeremiah realized their attention was centered around the saloon, not him.

Breaking cover, he ran at the ditch. A ganger looked up in time to see a 6'4", two-hundred fifteen pound mass jumping at him. He raised his pistol and fired defensively, and was then crushed by Jeremiah, who quickly pulled him up and threw him at his companion. The gangers fell over each other, and Jeremiah aimed his pistol in their direction. They looked at him, and raised their hands.

His gaze was frightening, much like his voice. "Don't move," he ordered. The Powder Gangers quickly nodded, not daring oppose the man with the First Recon beret.

The fire from the saloon ceased, and he looked up. He saw Trudy point to the road, and Jeremiah turned in time to see a figure running away from the fight. Looking back at the saloon, he saw Ringo laying on the floor, bleeding from a wound in his thigh. Doc Mitchell was there, attempting to medicate him.

"You stay! Help him!" Jeremiah shouted, pointing at Ringo. Trudy nodded, and Jeremiah rushed off down the road, in the direction of a retreating Joe Cobb.

Cobb, seeing Jeremiah running after him, turned and got a shot off with his revolver. It struck Jeremiah in the shoulder, causing him to wince in pain. The bullet tore through with minimal damage caused. He decided he would deal with it later.

Seeing him get hit and keep running, Cobb ditched the revolver and concentrated on running. Where was he running to? He didn't even know. Just away from the man with the beret on and the crazed look on his face.

Needless to say, it wasn't much of a race. Jeremiah tackled Cobb going down a hill, and the two slid five feet down the road. Jeremiah took his pistol and slammed the butt into Cobb's nose, and proceeded to carry him up the hill.

"Leave. We don't like varmints in our town." Trudy was telling Cobb and the two surviving Powder Gangers, who were tied up and sitting on the floor in the saloon. Jeremiah watched from his spot against the wall as Trudy and Sunny took the three out back. There, he guessed, they were released and sent running with their tail between their legs. He thought he could hear Cobb shouting something about returning with the full might of the Powder Gangers, and burning the town to the ground. He wouldn't be back.

Jeremiah walked out to the saloon's porch, and found Ringo sitting on the steps, massaging his bandaged leg. He sat next to him.

Ringo looked at him. "Thanks," he said. "I'm not sure if I would've made it out of this town without your help."

Waving him off, Jeremiah adjusted his shoulder wrap, "You would have. We're both young. Tough to bring down. Hell, we both took bullets."

"Yeah, but you got shot in the head just days ago. You didn't owe me anything."

Jeremiah looked at the worn man sitting next to him, and grunted. "No, not you. The town. Someone like Cobb, they won't just stop with you. He would've come back for the town, sooner or later."

Ringo nodded. Sunny Smiles joined them on the steps.

"Hey fellas," she said, "what're we talking about?"

"Nothing worth repeating," Jeremiah told her. He stood up and walked a few feet, to the edge of the saloon light. Ringo and Sunny watched him, interested in the big stranger that just helped save the town.

"What will you do now, Jeremiah?" Sunny asked.

He was quiet for a moment, thinking. Finally, he sighed.

"I'm leaving tomorrow. I'll head south, to Primm, and then around to Highway 95. To Vegas."

"What does Vegas have for you?"

"The man that shot me in the head." He replied, running a finger along the scar Benny had given him. He felt his anger rise in him, and he kept his face away from the saloon. Silently, he vowed revenge.

"Well," Ringo spoke up, "why don't we go share a drink? Something better than Sarsaparilla?"

Smiling, Jeremiah turned. "I'd like that."

The three went into the saloon. They shared drinks, and then parted for the night, Sunny and Ringo went one way, Jeremiah stayed in the saloon, thinking over whiskey.

When the town woke the next day, his tab was paid and he was nowhere to be seen.


	4. Primm

**Somewhere**

_Jeremiah stood in the cocktail lounge of the Lucky 38, waiting for his guest to arrive. This meeting was important; one that may decide the fate of Vegas and the NCR in the Mojave. He stood at the giant glass windows, slanting out of the roulette-wheel-shaped casino. Looking out on the Strip, he saw tourists and gamblers walk along the Las Vegas Boulevard, as well as Securitrons and NCR soldiers. Most of the NCR soldiers came to the Strip on leave. They always seemed to end up drunk._

_Turning away from the glamor of the Strip, Jeremiah stroked his brown hair back, and pulled at the collar on his shirt. As he walked to the bar, the elevator bell dinged. Stopping, he faced the elevator, preparing to greet his guest._

_When the doors opened, the man who stepped out was not the man Jeremiah was expecting._

_A man in black body armor stepped out. Every inch of exposed skin was covered with white bandages. Sharp blue eyes shone out from a gap in the wrappings. He walked into the cocktail lounge, and faced his host._

_"Hello, Jeremiah. I've been waiting for you." he said._

_Jeremiah stepped back, unaware of what to think of the man. "Who...who are you?" he asked him._

_"I once helped bring terror down on this land, helping a self-proclaimed god named Caesar. I was once known as the Malpais Legate. My Christian name, however, is Joshua Graham."_

_Gasping, Jeremiah staggered back into the cocktail lounge. Words, barely audible, were able to escape his mouth. "But that can't be...they...Caesar threw you into the canyon! They set you on fire! You're...you're the Burned Man!"_

_Graham nodded, and strode over to the bar and poured himself a drink. Walking over to the window, he looked out over the vast expanses of the Mojave. "Indeed, I was. But, Caesar did not kill me, and he knows it. I have killed many of the assassins he sends to kill me, and I will one day kill him, claiming vengeance. But, I will not return for him alone. I've been waiting to meet with you for some time, Jeremiah."_

_Sitting down in a chair, Jeremiah faced him. "What, why?"_

_"You see," Graham said, "the Mojave is about to erupt. The second battle of Hoover Dam will just be the tip of the iceberg. Caesar's Legion and the NCR will not be the only parties you have to fear. Soon, you will be faced with your toughest challenge, and it will come from all sides."_

_Shaking his head, Jeremiah told him, "I - I don't fear the NCR."_

_Graham faced him, "You should. You will. Caesar, Kimball, House, they all should be feared. The Mojave needs a real leader. They need you, Jeremiah."_

_Jeremiah shook his head. "I'm no leader. I'm just a courier."_

_Graham sat in a seat, and motioned for Jeremiah to do the same, opposite him. Jeremiah did without hesitating. After all, the man who now sat across from him was once the most feared man in the Mojave._

_"Soon, Jeremiah, your nation will call for you, in their time of greatest need. You will go to help them. When you do, they will betray you."_

_"But," Jeremiah protested, "I won't help them! I want nothing more from the Mojave except Benny. I'm done after that."_

_Graham shook his head, gravely. "No, you will help them. You will be pressured into it by an accomplice, and you will both be brought down. Once you have been shackled, you must find your strength, and then you must lead your people into battle against the enemy of your enemy."_

_Jeremiah grasped his head. "I...I don't understand. How can I lead people, when I don't have people to lead?"_

_"'It is the Lord your God who will cross ahead of you; He will destroy these nations before you, and you shall dispossess them. Joshua is the one who will cross ahead of you, just as the Lord has spoken. The Lord will do to them just as He did to Sihon and Og, the kings of the Amorites, and to their land, when He destroyed them. The Lord will deliver them up before you, and you shall do to them according to all the commandments which I have commanded you. Be strong and courageous, do not be afraid or tremble at them, for the Lord your God is the one who goes with you. He will not fail you or forsake you.'" Graham recited the Christian Bible by memory, on instinct almost._

_Jeremiah let what he said sink in, realizing to an extent when it entailed. Before he could speak, though, Graham continued._

_"You will soon face your greatest adversary yet, one who was trained by Caesar, and myself. He will challenge you, mentally and physically. You must defeat him. The fate of the Mojave may depend on you doing so."_

_Jeremiah nodded, and the elevator dinged. Graham crossed his legs, nodding towards the doors. Turning to greet his guest, hopefully the one he expected, Jeremiah turned when he was in front of the doors._

_"Joshua? Are you dead?" he asked the Burned Man._

_Looking at him with his sharp eyes, Graham shook his head. "I am coming back, Jeremiah. For you. But, it is not me you should worry about." Graham nodded again at the opening elevator doors._

_Turning, Jeremiah yelled in fear and surprise._

_Running at him out of the elevator doors was a legionnaire, wielding a machete. The man wore the typical legion armor, but on his head he wore what looked to be the head of a wolf. Across his eyes he wore something dark, Jeremiah could not tell what. He didn't have time to._

_Jeremiah, seeing the charging Frumentarius, grabbed for his pistol, but he only grabbed air. As his attacker plunged the machete into his stomach, Jeremiah screamed._

_On the ground in a pool of his own blood, Jeremiah looked up into a face he could not see. It hung there, standing over him, before being shot down by Joshua Graham, who rushed to Jeremiah's side. Reaching out for him, Jeremiah's vision began to fade. Faintly, he heard Graham speak._

_"Go. I will find you, Jeremiah."_

* * *

**Primm**

With a start, Jeremiah jerked awake. Caked sweat stuck to him, and he was shivering. Looking around, he gathered his bearings. He was lying on a cot in an NCR tent. He had walked from Goodsprings the previous morning. It had taken him the better part of the day to reach the Primm. Along the way he had run into Powder Gangers and a group of raiders on the interstate. It had been dark when he entered the west side of the town of Primm. The town had been taken over by Powder Gangers after they escaped from the federal penitentiary a few miles up the road, and the NCR had been called in. Jeremiah had come to the town to speak to Johnson Nash, the head of the local chapter of the Mojave Express, to talk about his order. And, maybe to find some leads on Benny and the Khans.

Wiping sweat off of his forehead, Jeremiah thought on the dream, and tried to makes sense off it. Was Joshua Graham alive? The man whom Caesar had set on fire and thrown into the Grand Canyon after losing the first battle of Hoover Dam?

Jeremiah shook the feeling off, and stood up. He stretched, and pulled on his brown jacket and grabbed his pack. His circardian rhythms guessed that it was around five-thirty in the morning, and his Pip-Boy confirmed it. Normal wake-up time for Jeremiah Winters.

Opening the tent flap, he saw Lieutenant Bernard Hayes standing outside, having a morning smoke. The sun was peaking over Black Mountain to the east, turning the sky different shades of pink. Wind eased past, and Jeremiah could tell the day would be pleasant, from an environmental standpoint.

Jeremiah walked over to Hayes, who turned and noticed him walk up. Jeremiah had known Hayes when he was in the NCR military. The two met during basic training, and had become friends until Jeremiah joined First Recon. Bernard wore his green NCR officer's beret, and offered his hand as Jeremiah approached. The two stood side by side, looking over to the rows of broken houses that symbolized the western side of Primm.

"What's the word, Lieutenant?" Jeremiah asked.

"Nothing new," he answered. "The convicts still hold the eastern part of the town, and we are over here barely holding our ground. Mojave Outpost is still denying our request for reinforcements. Sooner or later, I'll have to let my men go, when their time runs out. When that happens, the citizens still stuck in there will probably be attacked by the gangers. Those that surrender'll be taken to the penitentiary a few miles north. Then we'll be in a pickle. You know, obligated to stage some rescue mission. Rangers get called in, typical hostage ssituation."

Jeremiah nodded, he knew the NCR protocol somewhat. In all hostage situations, the Rangers and First Recon would be brought in. The regular troopers weren't reliable enough. He had seen a good share of hostage situations. They were never pretty. "Do you know their strength?" he asked.

"No," Hayes shook his head. "I think they number anywhere from fifteen to twenty. I barely have five good men here. None of them I've sent in. You're not still thinking about going over there, are you?"

"I have too. I can't stay long, because I'm following some men who attacked me in Goodsprings. They're heading to the Strip. Besides, the man who gave me my delivery is here. He may have some information for me. If I can't find out anything I'll be heading out. At the very least I'll check in at the Outpost. Maybe they went west, to California. If not, I may head to highway 93. From there, it would be a straight shot to Vegas."

Hayes shrugged. "Sounds like a plan. You're ex-Recon. You can fare well against some gangers, hoping you haven't lost your shot. I'll tell my troopers to let you pass. Good luck, Jeremiah," The two shook hands.

"I'll be seeing you, Bernard." Hayes nodded after him as he walked away, towards the bridge which connected both sides of the town.

The guard on the bridge let Jeremiah pass, and cautiously he crept into Primm's downtown. He eyed the giant rollercoaster that sat behind the Bison Steve Hotel and Casino, checking it for convicts. Finally, he reached the end of the bridge.

The burned-out hulk of a Corvega rested a few feet away, next to an old, dilapidated gas station. A few convicts patrolled some wooden housing on the far side of a big building Hayes had said was the Vikki and Vance Casino. Jeremiah slowly crept forward, passing the Corvega, and made it to one side of the casino.

He looked across the street and saw the building with the words "Mojave Express" across the top. A man lay by the door, next to what Jeremiah thought looked to be blood. As he got closer to the man, he saw that it was in fact blood. He leaned over the body and instantly recognized the face. The man's name had been Daniel Wyand, a courier like Jeremiah. The two had met in Carson City, and had traveled back to the Mojave in the same caravan together.

Jeremiah frowned, and remorse hit him. Daniel must have been returning for another delivery when the convicts moved in. He had been barely twenty. Jeremiah reached over to check for Daniel's order form, and at the same time a bullet hit the door next to him. Ducking, Jeremiah threw open the door, and dove inside. Suddenly, gunfire pelted the building, shattering the glass on the door and putting holes in the windows.

A counter took up one side of the room, on the other side of which were mail slots. Jeremiah dove on the other side, taking cover from the incoming gunfire. Bullets splintered the wooden walls and broke the glass of the windows, raining down all around Jeremiah's position. He pulled out his pistol and tried raising his head.

There were four gangers standing outside the building. They were standing and shooting into the building. The door was almost off of its hinges due to the bullets smashing it. Jeremiah ducked again, firing off a few shots blindly. He shot three times, and his pistol jammed.

"_Shit!" _he yelled. The gunfire slowed, and he raised his head above the counter. He saw the convicts slowly making their way towards the building. When they saw his head pop up, two fired, narrowly missing.

"Listen here, asshole!" Jeremiah heard one yell. "This is our territory, and you're trespassing. The punishment for trespassing is death. Be prepared to get what's comin' to yah!"

Rolling his eyes, Jeremiah yelled back. "Hey, fat boy!" Though he couldn't see the man's face, he laughed to himself. "You better back up or else you'll be getting what's coming to you!"

The convicts began shooting again. Jeremiah didn't know how close they were, but he didn't dare look. The bullets were beginning to tear through the counter.

As soon as it started, however, it ended. Confused, he heard a voice shout.

"Youngster! If you want to live I suggest you get in here!" The voice came from the Vikki and Vance, and Jeremiah quickly threw the door, or what was left of it, open and ran out. The four convicts lay dead outside the door to the Express office. At the Vikki and Vance Casino, two men stood in the open doorway.

One was an old man, with dark skin and heavy eyes, who held a revolver. Jeremiah knew him: Johnson Nash, the man who had given him a job with the Mojave Express. Johnson wore overalls, and stood staring straight at him, wielding a .357 magnum.

The other man Jeremiah did not know. He wore leather armor, and had a brown fedora on top of messy brown hair. A few inches shorter than Jeremiah, he wielded a repeating rifle, Jeremiah guessed one that was fitted for .44 magnum rounds. The man had a revolver tucked on a holster on his hip. Upon closer inspection, Jeremiah saw it was a revolver given to NCR Veteran Rangers, although the man looked too young to have served long enough to have been given that title. The man was barely a man; barely nineteen.

"Youngster," Johnson Nash told him, "I don't know what it was that brought you to Primm, but you might want to rethink your plans. Town's gone to hell. Come on in."

_I wish he wouldn't call me 'youngster.' I'm nearly twent-eight. _

Jeremiah followed Nash and the stranger into the casino, and two other locals quickly shut the door behind them. Inside, the casino was dark. The entire town seemed to be taking refuge inside, they were milling about their business inside. Some drinking, some just wandering. A Protectron-model robot walked around, stiffly, in a cowboy hat. Seeing it, Jeremiah was reminded of Victor.

"What're you doing here, youngster?" Johnson Nash asked him.

"I'm a courier with the Mojave Express." Jeremiah told him.

Nash sighed. "Well, sorry to say, but I don't have any work for you."

"No, I was hoping to talk to you about my last delivery. I was attacked outside Goodsprings, and my delivery was stolen." Jeremiah reached into his pack and took out his delivery order. Handing it over, Nash eyed it, reading the details.

"Oh," he said, "you got one of them weird orders."

"What?" Jeremiah asked, perplexed.

"We got these weird shipments in, asking to be, uh, delivered to quite wealthy owners: a large, fuzzy pair of dice, or in your case, a platinum poker chip. Then, when I gave the first courier your job, he looked at our courier list, and when he saw your name he got all excited. Like he had found something he'd been lookin' for, you know? He asked if that was a real name, and when I told him yes, he told me to let you take it."

"That's strange," Jeremiah said. Who did he know that as also a courier? He sat, thinking for a moment. Nash and the young fella kept their eyes on him.

"You said you got attacked and got this stolen?" Johnson asked him. Jeremiah nodded.

"Yes, that's why I came here. I wanted to ask if you've seen any shady characters come through town recently."

Nash sat quiet for a few moments before speaking again. "I can't be sure, since I haven't seen much of town since the convicts took over. Our deputy Beagle may know. He got himself captured by the convicts after they killed the sheriff. They have him locked up across the street, in the Bison Steve. You'd do well to go get him out."

"I may do that."

"Watch yourself, youngster. Them convicts aren't particularly nice. And Beagle, he's a slimy, no-good, rotten, coward of a deputy," Nash neary spat.

Jeremiah laughed, and disregarded what he said. "Trust me, Mr. Nash, I'll be fine."

As Jeremiah turned back to the door with his pistol drawn, the man in leather amor walked over to him.

"Excuse me, but if you don't mind, I could assist you. You may need some help dealing with those convicts," he said.

Jeremiah looked at him skeptically. "You are?"

"The name is Bryan O'Neil," he said, sticking out his hand. Jeremiah shook it. "I'm an ex-mercenary that got caught in the crossfire here. I've been waiting it out, you know, protecting these folks." His voice was very young. Jeremiah wondered if his original assessment had been too much; the kid looked and sounded close to eighteen. An _ex-mercenary_?

Jeremiah folded his arms. "So, you're looking for a way out of town?"

Bryan nodded.

"Okay. Alright, I guess I could use the company. Lets get going," Jeremiah gave the kid one last doubtful look, and the two walked out of the casino. Across the street, the door to the Bison Steve appeared unguarded. The two exited the Vikki and Vance cautiously, one covering the other. They scanned the street for any other convicts. Not seeing any, they ran across the street to the Bison Steve.

"Look," Jeremiah said when they reached the door. "I'm ex-NCR First Recon. I know what I'm talking about, and honestly, you seem a bit too green to have been a _paid _merc. A little too clean, too. So frankly, I don't give a damn how action you supposedly got, or how much pay you supposedly got. I'm calling the shots. Understand?"

Bryan blinked, but quickly nodded. The kid knew when to not put up a fight. Jeremiah figured he may actually make it out here. Jeremiah nodded to the door.

Slowly, Bryan opened it, and Jeremiah walked inside, pistol out. Checking the corners, he walked through the reception lobby. There was an overturned table that made a barricade in the middle of the room. Bryan walked behind a counter on the right and checked the door by it. Looking over at Jeremiah, he mouthed '_Locked_.'

Suddenly, a man came around the corner. Jeremiah turned, and before he could swing a punch, Bryan shot him, once, in the throat. Jeremiah turned, and raised his hands angrily.

"What the hell was that?" he demanded

"I shot him! He was coming at you!" Bryan answered pleadingly.

"I don't care! I would've had him! And now you've gone and woken up the entire damn hotel!"

"Well?"

"_Well_," Jeremiah said, as he looked down the hall and fired his pistol at an incoming convict, "since the stealth route is blown, you run off down this hall, and go distract any convicts you find. I''ll go find Beagle. Think you can do that, kid?"

Bryan nodded. Jeremiah patted him on his back and sent him away. He ran down the hall, firing his repeater, and then disappeared into an entranceway. The sound of gunfire followed. Jeremiah ran down the hall. The hallway was dark, only one lamp in a corner was barely lit. Searching the hall, his eyes landed on a small door. Opening it led him into a small hallway. Walking a few feet, Jeremiah rounded a corner and met a convict, looking at him with a drawn revolver. Jeremiah greeted him.

"Hiya!" he said before throwing a punch that landed in the man's ribs. The man grunted before pointing the revolver at him. Jeremiah lunged, twisting his and disarming the convict, who pulled a knife from his belt and stabbed at him. Backing away, Jeremiah watched the knife carefully. The convict tensed, and Jeremiah threw a hard kick that hit the man in his groin. The man gave a small yelp, and Jeremiah grabbed the hand which held the knife, turned it hard, and the knife fell away. The convict, seeing his knife fall, grabbed Jeremiah around the neck and began to squeeze. Gasping, the ex-First Recon sniper put his right hand on the man's face, digging his fingers into his eyes.

The convict screamed, and released his grip. Jeremiah pushed harder. Reaching down, he took his combat knife from his leg strap. Swiftly, he plunged the knife into the convicts stomach, near the rib cage. The man gasped, and grew quiet. Air escaped his mouth, and Jeremiah knew he was dead. Releasing his fingers, the man slumped to the floor.

Pulling his knife out, Jeremiah cleaned it on the man's shirt. He also picked up the revolver the man had dropped. It had a black grip and a white barrel and chamber. On the hilt the word "Lucky" was etched in silver lettering, next to a spade.

Jeremiah grunted and continued down the hall, towards a kitchen with a table in the middle of the room. On one side was a double-door, on the other side of which Jeremiah saw a group of convicts, one with a flamethrower, shooting a separate entrance way. _Bryan must be giving them hell_.

Moving to the door, he closed them. Walking over to two refrigerators, he rooted in one and pulled a bottle of whiskey. He opened it and took a few swallows. Turning around, he jumped when he saw a man on his knees, tied up. The man looked at Jeremiah with a ridiculous grin on his face.

"I don't suppose you're here to rescue me. I'd cross my fingers, but my hands are numb."

Jeremiah crossed his arms. "You must be Deputy Beagle."

"Why, yes I am. It's a pleasure to meet you." Beagle said. The man had a very southern accent.

"I'm in a bit of a predicament here," he continued, "and I'd be most appreciative if you'd set me free."

Jeremiah ignored him. The sounds of gunfire could still be heard outside the kitchen. Jeremiah quietly stepped back to the double doors. Opening blinds on one, he peered out as the whiskey bottle moved towards his mouth. "I hear you may have some information on some Khans that came through here with a guy in a checkered coat," he inquired.

"Indeed I do, good sir. And, I would be thrilled to share that information with you once I am released from my captivity."

Shaking his head, Jeremiah laughed. "No, you can tell me now or you can rot in here."

"Oh, uh, right," Beagle said, frazzled. "well, you see, I was skulkin- er, uh...making my rounds, when I see these shady folk coming into town. I hid, and I overheard them talking about going to the Strip. They're going to head through the Nipton highway and up through Novac, on Highway 93."

Jeremiah nodded. "Okay, thank you," he said. Suddenly, the gunfire stopped. A voice yelled, and there was the sound of a blow hitting something hard. Walking to the door, Jeremiah opened it a fraction. What he saw made him sigh in frustration.

Bryan was being led towards the center of the room by two convicts. They confiscated his weapons and knocked him off of his feet. The convict with the flamethrower walked over. The man was wearing goggles, making him look ridiculous.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" he demanded. Bryan remained silent, staring at the six figues looming above him. Jeremiah guessed he was disoriented. The leader slapped him, hard, with the back of his fist. Bryan fell, and was picked back up by another convict. "Who are you, and what are you doing here?" This time, Bryan spat. Blood came out of his mouth, landing near the feet of the flamethrower-wielding convict.

Turning away from the goings-on, Jeremiah looked around the room for something to help. Two refreigerators, kitchen tools, bottles of alcohol...his eyes fell on Deputy Beagle.

Again, Beagle had a ridiculous grin on his face.

"Just...stay here," Jeremiah told him as he ran back to the hallway by the kitchen.

"Uh, alright then. Just, hurry back my friend, for I can't feel my hands," the deputy replied, distraught.

Running back down the hall, he found the dead convict he had killed earlier. Turning the man over, he gauged his size. _It'll be a tight fit, _Jeremiah thought as he looked at his clothes. Sighing, he began to undress the dead man.

Five minutes later, he was dressed as a convict. Lastly, he pulled off his own First Recon beret, replacing it with a green faded baseball cap. Jeremiah pulled it down over his face as he walked back towards the kitchen.

"Oh, you're back!" Beagle stated hopefully. Jeremiah waved him off.

Walking to the door, Jeremiah opened it and walked out into the open room. This room was dimly lit as well, only a few drum barrels burning. The convicts around Bryan looked up at him.

"What'd I miss?" he asked them. The leader struck a cigarette and took a few puffs. He walked over.

"Captured this little bitch. Killed our sentry - old Jules - in the front. Won't talk though."

"Want me to throw him with the deputy?"

The leader puffed on his smoke a few moments. He looked back over at his companions, who all seemed to be losing interest in Bryan. Finally he nodded.

Grabbing Bryan's colar, Jeremiah harshly pulled him out of the old gambling hall and into the kitchen. Angrily, he closed the double doors and threw his hat off. Bryan stood up and dusted himself off.

"What the hell were you doing?" Jeremiah asked quietly. "Feeling a bit _too _heroic, today?"

Bryan looked hurt. "I was doing what I thought was best. Didn't you say you wanted a distraction?"

"Well, now what do we do? We have Beagle tied up, and you don't have a gun on you. We can't really leave without them, can we?"

Sighing, Jeremiah walked back to the door, and looked out. The six convicts were all standing close around one of the burning drum barrels. The leader had his back to them. The big flamer tank looked heavy. Jeremiah's eyes flew open.

_The tank! _Grabbing his new revolver, he opened the door enough to stick it out. Bracing his free hand against the door, he rested his other wrist on it. He took a few deep breaths, taking careful aim at the flamer tank.

Slowly, he pulled the trigger.

_Boom! _

The flamer tank exploded as the bullet tore through the metal outline. Flames shot out, covering the leader as well as the two standing on his sides. Jeremiah burst from the doors, revolver raised. Three convicts were on the ground, burning. The other three had jumped away, reaching for their weapons. Jeremiah was upon them in an instant, three shots for three convicts. Nothing special, just a quick _pop pop pop. _

Smiling, he walked back to the kitchen while he reloaded the revolver. He liked the little pistol, it felt nice.

Bryan and Beagle both looked up as he walked in. "Got 'em," he announced. They grinned, and Bryan ran to retrieve his weapons.

"So, can you release me from my captivity?" Beagle asked. Jeremiah obliged him.

The three left the casino, and began walking back towards the NCR side of the town. Beagle tipped his non-existing hat and headed for the Vikki and Vance Casino. Jeremiah and Bryan both kept walking.

"Got what you were looking for?" Bryan asked him as they neared the guard on the bridge.

"Yeah," Jeremiah answered. "I'm off to Novac, through Nipton. I'll stay at the Mojave Outpost tonight. Who knows, I may run into some old NCR buddies there. What will you do?"

Bryan shrugged. "I don't know. With the war going on with the Legion and NCR, the mercenary business is declining. No one wants to hire anybody, and nobody wants to be hired. Too dangerous. And neither side uses people like me."

Jeremiah understood. The NCR didn't deal with mercs. It was in the policy.

"Who knows? I may try my luck in Vegas. Maybe head up to New Canaan, or even Seattle, if I can make it that far. Hitch a ride with a caravan."

"Caravans won't be running much that far north. The NCR will be using them for their supply lines. Look, you're welcome to stick with me until you find where you want to be. Even if you are a green son of a bitch." Jeremiah told him, grinning. Bryan chuckled a bit.

He stood, thinking a few moments. Jeremiah could see him thinking over his situation. His decision made, he nodded. "Yeah, I'll do that. After all, wandering the wastes is no fun alone." Jeremiah could agree with that.

The two began to walk south, towards the Mojave Outpost and the Nipton Highway in silence. Bryan thought long and hard over his new companion. In truth, he had never seen any action as a mercenary. He had run away from home in the NCR, hoping to find life in Vegas. He had been hoping Jeremiah would offer to take him along, or else he didn't know if he'd be able to stay alive long.

Jeremiah, on the other hand, thought of the strange man named Beagle, and the even stranger encounter with Joshua Graham in his dream the previous night. The Burned Man's cryptic premonition haunted him. Maybe he was alive after all.

And maybe he was returning.


	5. Heartache by the Number

**Mojave Outpost**

Bland, slow, and dreary. These are words that flashed through the minds of Jeremiah and Bryan as they entered the perimeter of the Mojave Outpost the following afternoon. Spending an extra day in Primm, the two had helped clear the town of the remaining convicts and were low on supplies.

Looking back down the large hill where they came, the two could see down into the Mojave, back to Primm, and all the way across to Nipton. They hoped to be there later that day, maybe by nightfall. Turning back, the two walked towards the NCR command post. Having been there a few times before on errands for the Express, Jeremiah pointed Bryan towards the barracks, and headed for the headquarters.

Walking into the fenced compound, Jeremiah looked around. NCR soldiers sauntered back and forth between the barracks and the headquarters, muttering about how much they hated patrolling the Mojave. On the roof of the barracks, he spotted a ranger, surveying the valley below. The ranger, upon seeing his beret, saluted. Jeremiah returned the show of respect.

Jeremiah opened the door to the headquarters and walked in. A major leaning against a counter looked up at his entrance. Behind the major were wooden mail slots, and of to the side of the building was a hallway down which were most likely offices. The major looked to be older than Jeremiah, mid-thirties perhaps; he wore NCR fatigues, a green beret, and a very bored expression on his face. When he spoke, his voice sounded very monotone, and reminded Jeremiah of the word "routine."

"Caravan, citizen, pilgrim, or..." he said bleakly.

"Uh, courier." Jeremiah responded. "Well, make that a courier and a mercenary. He's already at the bar." The major nodded and looked down. He scribbled something in a ledger, and shut it with a dull thud.

"Sorry, just need something for the log books. Got to keep tabs on traffic going in and out these days. Mostly in, these days. Not much goes out anymore," He sighed, far away.

Jeremiah stared. "Yes, uh, have you seen any strange characters through here lately? Like, the past week?"

The major tapped his chin with his pencil, thinking. "Not that I can think of. Most people head down Nipton Highway, you know, towards Nipton. People don't really come through here, unless they're coming from California."

"Alright," Jeremiah said, lightly tapping the counter top. "Thanks." He turned and exited the headquarters, deciding to join Bryan for a drink.

As he entered the barracks, he noticed that Bryan was nowhere to be found. On the stools around the bar he found an NCR soldier and a loan woman on the corner closest to the door. Jeremiah grunted, and took a stool on the opposite corner from the woman. The bartender, a woman named Lacey, walked over.

"New face in the Outpost, must've come from the North. So, what'll you have?" she asked.

"Oh, well, I'm looking for a friend I ca-"

She pointed towards a separate room with bunk beds. "Came in, had a drink, and passed out. Kid can't seem to handle the stuff. I even tried putting coffee in him. Hell, I was about to use the entire pot, nothing would work. Anyway, I had a soldier put him in a bed."

Jeremiah rolled his eyes. "Great," he said, frustrated, "got anything to eat around here?"

"I make a mean salisbury steak."

"One please. A bottle of scotch too, if you have one," he raised one finger to the side of his forehead, as if in a mini-salute.

She nodded and returned to her stock.

Making his way to the room with the bunk beds, Jeremiah quickly located Bryan, laid out on a bottom bunk closest to the bar. He still wore his leather armor, though Jeremiah thought there was no way taking it off was a possibility. Crouching next to him, Jeremiah slapped him in the face, lightly. Bryan snorted, and rolled over in his sleep, undisturbed.

Chuckling slightly, Jeremiah returned to the bar, where a bottle of scotch and a Salisbury steak awaited him. Sitting down to eat, he thought about the upcoming days, and his plan. Nipton, Novac, Vegas. Get what I want, deliver it, and leave. Done. He thought of the man in the checkered suit, Benny. Thinking back to the night in Goodsprings, Jeremiah cringed. "The game's been rigged from the start," Benny had told him. What does that mean? Jeremiah wondered.

After a few minutes passed, he realized he had begun to stare into the area across from the bar; directly at the woman on the corner stool. This time he was able to get a closer look. She wore a brown suede jacket with a plaid shirt underneath it. On her head was a worn cowboy hat and red hair pulled back into a ponytail. On her back was a large shotgun. Looking at her face, Jeremiah saw she was, in fact, quite attractive. Small facial features, but cute. Her face was small and round, she was very handsome. Jeremiah also realized that she was looking right back at him, with a look of irritation on her cute face. When she spoke, she sounded frustrated and irritable.

"You lookin' for trouble?" she said, her voice soft yet edgy, most likely due to the harshness of the wastes. Or the whiskey bottle she held. The entire bottle, not just a glass.

Jeremiah shook himself. "Oh, uh, no. Just, looking, I guess."

"Well, I suggest you keep them eyes up and turnin'. I don't have time for gawkers, or people looking for something I ain't sellin'," Jeremiah coughed on his food, nearly sending it across the bar. She raised an eyebrow.

"Look, we uh, got off on the wrong foot. Why don't we have a drink?" he said, regaining his composure.

"A drink?" She asked, sighing. "How about a couple of drinks, is what you meant to say."

"Well, by the way you hold that whiskey bottle in your hand, it looks like you just need one more." Indeed, the bottle she held was half full. Much to his surprise, she noticed it and drained the last half. She asked for another.

"Hah! I could drink all day. Hell, I do," she said with a smirk. "Drinking to forget, nowadays. All it does is make me mad. Whiskey always gets my temper up. Especially now."

"What're you trying to forget?" he asked. Taking his plate, he moved over to the bar to sit next to her. She smelled good, too, he realized. She appeared _clean. _

"Lost my caravan heading north. Driver got burned to ash, and whoever hit it didn't even take the cargo. Just burned that, too."

Jeremiah finished his steak, and threw a few bottle caps on the table. He offered his hand.

"Name's Jeremiah. Jeremiah Winters," She grabbed his hand.

"Mine's Rose of Sharon Cassidy. You can call me Cass, though."

"Well, Cass," Jeremiah continued, "it doesn't sound like raiders hit your caravan."

She snorted. "My guess is Legion. They're trying to cut NCR's supply line. The Mojave Outpost is proof of that. They got us locked up tighter than a virgin in Vegas. They won't let caravans in or out. I gave up trying to argue to Ranger Jackson about it, too. 'Roads aren't safe,' he says. No shit, a Brotherhood Scribe could've told me that. See, he won't let me head north, but my caravan papers are keeping me here."

"So? Way it looks to me, you don't have a caravan. What is it that is keeping you from walking out?"

She sighed, and pointed to a pendant hanging from her neck. "See this? Only thing I have from my dearest father. He abandoned mom and m'self when I was young."

"Where did he go?"

"Don't care, doesn't really matter. He's probably dead now. His ghost is keeping me here, though. Cassidy Caravans is my birthright. Doesn't feel right just leavin'."

Jeremiah nodded. His father had given him his birthright when he left for the NCR military: his satisfaction. Samuel Winters had given his son the only thing he had worth handing down, and Jeremiah still loved it.

"Well, I wish I could help you," he offered her his best face. "Me and my friend will be heading out later today, so who knows if we'll ever see each other again." She nodded.

Jeremiah motioned to Lacey. "Could you go get him up?" he pointed to Bryan, still sleeping. She nodded, and walked over to the bunks. Jeremiah looked at Cass over the lip of his scotch, and bit his lip. Something was nagging him, but he didn't want to ask.

She noticed. "Something the matter?" she asked.

He got up and tightened his jacket. Raising a hand to his head, he tipped the invisible cowboy hat in her direction. "No, ma'am. And, I must be leaving. Good luck to you, I hope you get out of here fast." She raised a hand in a slight wave, and he walked off. He felt bad, leaving her here at the bar, drinking away her troubles in whiskey. She was too pretty to leave alone.

Bryan was slowing coming too. "Huh...where...what the hell?" he mumbled as Jeremiah walked over to him.

"Get up, we're leaving. Need to be in Nipton by nightfall," he said.

Bryan groaned and struggled out of the bunk, looking for his bag. As he rambled and searched for his things, Jeremiah thought of Cass, sitting at the bar. In his mind he saw her tough, cute face, saddened by the loss of her caravan. He saw her waste away at the bar, drowning her sorrows in bottle after bottle of whiskey. Jeremiah sighed.

"Damn it, Jeremiah," he whispered, looking at the ceiling, "why did you have to talk to her?"

Bryan looked at him. "You say something?"

Jeremiah had not heard him, however. He was walking back towards the bar. Cass turned when he walked up.

"You're back." she said.

"Yep," he replied. "Come with me. Get out of this shit hole."

Cass looked at him for a minute, before shaking her head. "As much as I'd enjoy that, I can't. These damn caravan papers are keeping me here."

"Can I see them?"

"Sure." she told him, reaching into a small handbag. She ruffled a hand around in it before handing him the papers. Jeremiah studied them. It was a stack of about five papers, one declaring Miss Rose of Sharon Cassidy the owner of said Cassidy Caravans. The others handled various logistical aspects of the caravan.

"This is what's been keeping you here?" He asked. She nodded. "Why don't you sell it? You said yourself the caravan is nothing but ash."

"Would you sell your name, and your birthright?"

"No, but I sure as hell wouldn't let it keep me from being productive. Don't let the memory of a dead man stop you from living. He left you, you said it yourself. You don't owe him anything," Cass raised an eyebrow at him.

"Why do you care?"

Jeremiah put a hand on her shoulder. "Because I used to be like you, wasting away at a bar. It won't help anything. You said it was just making you mad? If it really was, then get up and do something about it."

She sighed, and looked at the papers in his hands. Jeremiah looked down, took the papers in both hands, and ripped them. Cass watched with a blank expression on her face, and slowly stood up. "Well, guess I don't have anymore papers," she said, smiling. Jeremiah winked at her. Though she didn't think he noticed, she blushed. Barely.

At that moment, Bryan walked up. He looked at Jeremiah and Cass, each in turn. "A friend of yours?" he asked.

Jeremiah looked at him, and back at Cass. He nodded, smiling.

Nipton

The three walked east. They approached Nipton after a very uneventful evening on the Nipton Highway. A few raiders had attempted to stop them, only to be gunned down by Jeremiah and Cass, who turned out to be a nice shot with the shotgun she carried. Bryan sat back, making excuses about not wanting to waste ammunition.

As the town of Nipton loomed on a small hill ahead of them, Jeremiah stopped. Cass and Bryan noticed, and stopped as well. "Something the matter?" Cass asked, looking at him confusedly.

"There's smoke coming from the town," Jeremiah said, pointing. Sure enough, smoke could be seen rising from the town, as well as the light of fire.

Retrieving a pair of binoculars from his pack, Jeremiah scanned the town. What he saw made his heart turn to ice.

A pair of Legion flags surrounded the road into town. Fires blazed throughout. Jeremiah's heart began to pound, and he turned to his companions.

"Legion flags. Stay on your toes," Putting the binoculars away, Jeremiah checked the revolver he received in Primm, making sure it was loaded. Cass drew her shotgun; Bryan his repeater.

The three cautiously crept into town. On the top of the hill, they saw fire was in nearly every building, save the general store and the town hall. Jeremiah scanned the destruction of the city. Anger began to rise inside him. When they turned the corner by the general store, what they saw made them freeze.

Poles lined the street leading towards the town hall. On the polls were men, crucified. The stench of death and smoke filled the air. Blood was running down the men nailed to the poles. Some were still alive. To Jeremiah's left, Bryan heaved. Cass mumbled something under her breath. Jeremiah closed his eyes and stood still. He had seen it all before. The Legion was ruthless; the people they didn't brutally kill or crucified, they sold into slavery. Normally, they made the women slaves, and only after they had their way with them.

Jeremiah began to walk towards the town hall. "Come on, we need to know what happened."

He tried to not look at the crucified men. They were moaning, the pain from the nails and rope excruciating. Though he wanted to help them, Jeremiah knew taking them from their crosses would certainly kill them; either way, death was close.

Suddenly, movement came into his line of sight. Five figures, on the steps leading to the town hall, were walking forward. Four of them fanned out, two on each side of a center figure. The five wore the army of Caesar's Legion. The center figure, however, wore something that set of an alarm in Jeremiah's mind.

On his head he wore what appeared to be the head of a wolf.

_The man in the dream, _Jeremiah thought_, the man that attacked me wore the head of a wolf._

Jeremiah leveled the pistol with the man's head. Cass and Bryan each raised their weapons. The four legionaries on the each side of the wolf-man raised weapons and kept hands near their machetes. The man in the center, however, simply smiled and walked forward. Jeremiah cringed.

When he was close enough, the man spoke.

"Don't worry, I won't have you lashed to a cross like the rest of these degenerates. In fact, it is useful that you happened by. I want you to witness the fate of the town of Nipton; to memorize every detail. And then, when you move on? I want you to teach everyone you meet the lesson that Caesar's Legion taught here. Especially any NCR soldiers you happen by," His voice was cold and nasally. It was also very calm. Jeremiah felt a chill go up his spine.

"Your crimes are unforgivable," he spat.

"No. Our crimes are necessary. The lessons taught here will soon be given to all profligates in the Mojave. The day of reckoning is coming, and Caesar will destroy all who oppose him."

"Why don't you just kill me?"

The man smiled, almost sadistically. "Because you will pay testimony to what has happened here. Your time of judgement by Caesar has not yet come, however. But, mark my words, it is coming. I, Vulpes Inculta, leader of Caesar's Frumentarii, tell you that when Caesar marches across Hoover Dam, all those who oppose him shall be crucified like those you see today."

Jeremiah nearly snarled at him. "You're sick. Go to hell. You, Caesar and your Legion."

"We shall see, profligate. Now, I bid you 'Vale'." The man, Vulpes Inculta, bowed at the three. The legionaries lined up behind him, and together they began to walk into the wastes to the east.

Jeremiah stood, breathing lightly. He now had a name to the mysterious Frumentarius from his dream.

Turning, he looked at Cass and Bryan. Both were white, with looks of fear and disgust on their faces.

Sighing, he turned and walked between them, back through the rows of crosses. The groans of the dying reached his ears, and Jeremiah closed his eyes as he walked, attempting to shut them out. As he reached the corner near the end of the street, he heard Bryan shout to him.

"Aren't we going to help them?" he yelled.

Jeremiah turned around. "No, that'd just hasten their death."

Bryan looked at him, obviously upset. "You can''t just leave them!"

"Yes, I can. This is why the Legion nails their victims to the poles. If you take them off, it kills them just as easy. They want you to take them off their crosses. To try and help them. But you can't. The best you can do for them is put a bullet in their head."

Jeremiah looked at Bryan with a faraway look of regret. The kid was naive, but he would learn. He hated having to be the person to teach him these lessons. He turned on the Nipton Highway, heading east once more.

The three walked on, out of the town of Nipton. They entered a small canyon just to the east of town, just as night was settling in. A few rusted big rig trucks sat on and across the cracked street. Some had their cargo still in their containers. Others just sat with trailers attatched. They walked silently.

Jeremiah walked by Cass, and Bryan followed, lost in his own thoughts. Looking around, Jeremiah noticed various cones lying scattered on the ground. He disregarded them.

They walked closer to one of the rusting big rigs. Cass stopped as they neared a cone that sat next to the back bumper. She turned to Jeremiah.

"Hey, you hear that?" she asked. He stopped, and listened. To his rear, Bryan ran into him.

"What gives?" Bryan asked, irritated at their halt. Jeremiah put a hand out to silence him, and closed his eyes. Cass was right; he could hear a faint beeping sound. Looking around, he tried to find the root of the source. He realized it was coming from under the cone. Cautiously, he crept forward and slowly raised it off the ground. The beeping noise quickened its tempo.

Seeing what was beneath, he jerked his hand away and turned around.

"Get down!" he screamed, lunging at Cass. The frag mine blew as he grabbed her. The resulting shock from the explosion sent the two to the ground. Bryan had dove to the side of the street.

Hitting the hard, cracked concrete hurt like hell. Jeremiah was on top of Cass, and the two were covered in dust. From somewhere above the smoke and dust from the explosion, they heard Bryan shout, "Dammit!"

Slowly, Jeremiah opened his eyes. Cass was looking at him, peculiarly. The smile she sported seemed to brighten her entire person. Jeremiah found himself drawn to it.

"This your way of starting a companionship?" she asked.

He winked at her again, smiling. "Frag mines aren't really my style."

"Well," she said, wiping some dust from her forehead. "What exactly is your style?"

Jeremiah smiled deeper and raised an eyebrow at her. "Miss Cassidy, are you flirting with me?" he asked.

She laughed. "Not likely. I'm not the dating type."

Jeremiah nodded, and stood, dusting himself off. A few feet away Bryan was looking at the two with a disgusted look on his face.

Jeremiah stretched. "Let's get goi-"

He never finished his sentence, for suddenly gunfire rang out from the cliffs above. Grabbing Cass, Jeremiah threw her against the side of the big rig. He crouched beside her and pulled his revolver from its holster. Bryan threw himself over towards them.

Shielding himself, Jeremiah looked up from his revolver to see a charging raider, wielding a tire iron. He raised the revolver and fired off two shots that hit the raider in the neck. He fell, dead. On his sides, Cass and Bryan were returning fire. They were pinned down from all directions. Bullets slammed into the metal of the big trucks. Searching the crests of the canyon walls, Jeremiah could see various shapes darting from the rocks that scattered the cliffs. A few times he fired off shots, trying in vain to hit their attackers. Every time, he missed.

"We shouldn't be here!" he shouted to his friends over the din. "We need to get out of the canyon!"

Cass shouted a curse above the wind, swiveled on the ground, and fired her shotgun. Jeremiah turned just in time to see a raider take the buckshot in his chest. The man stumbled, but stayed upright. Running, the raider thrust his knife into Jeremiah's shoulder. He screamed as he grabbed the man by the head and twisted it, snapping his neck.

Jeremiah looked down at the knife in his shoulder and groaned. Bryan turned pale at the sight, and looked away as Jeremiah yanked the knife out. Cass looked at him with a concerned look on her face, and he turned to her.

"We need to go. Now," he said. She nodded. Turning back to his wound, Jeremiah reached into his pack, pulled out a syringe of Med-X, and injected himself with one. Pain receded, he braced himself against the big rig's trailer, wincing as his shoulder throbbed.

"Bryan! We are leaving!" Jeremiah yelled. Getting ready to run, he made sure Cass was behind him. Grabbing his young friend, Jeremiah stood and urged him down the road, north, towards Novac. The three set off at a dead run, the gunfire following them.

As they crested the hill that led them out of the canyon, Jeremiah felt two bullets land on him; one in his right arm, the other in his right leg. He stumbled and rolled a few feet.

Cass and Bryan turned back when they saw him hit the street. Running back to him, Cass fired at the raiders and Bryan helped him up. Jeremiah's wounds screamed at Bryan's touch, but accepted his help.

They started running again, and again did not get far. Jeremiah stumbled over a crack in the street, and fell over. Hitting his head on the road, the last thing he saw before he blacked out were both of his companions rushing to his aid to be struck down by the approaching raiders


	6. One for My Baby

**Novac**

Boone heard the news after he got off shift in the morning.

Some local Viper gang members had ambushed three people heading up Highway 93, probably coming from Nipton. He heard one was a courier, and word around town was it was the same courier that survived getting shot in the head around Goodsprings. Boone waved them off, thinking them as nothing more than rumors.

No one in town knew how any of the three survived, other than from what the rangers had told them. A patrol happened by right as the Vipers had shot them down. Instead of carrying the three to the ranger station, they went ahead into Novac. Two were in critical condition, word was, and they might not live after a couple of days. Nevertheless, they were set up in the motel, and Doctor Ada Straus had been working hard on her patients since the came in two days previous.

Boone paid no attention. It wasn't his business; he was simply the night sniper. His job was to watch the road and only care for the travelers that were dangerous; more specifically, Legion. Travelers that got shot by Viper gangers, well, that was their own problem.

* * *

**The Next Day**

When Jeremiah awoke in the dark motel room late at night, his first thought was of his head, which hurt like hell. He gently put a hand to rub it, only to find bandages wrapped tightly around his skull. Sighing, he opened his eyes.

The motel room was very original. It reminded him of his room at the Atomic Wrangler. Dark, with single light in a kitchen to the left of the bed he currently occupied. The walls and ceiling were a cracked grey, and a faded yellow couch sat against a window next to the door. Medical equipment hung around the bed. Jeremiah struggled into a sitting position, which worsened his headache. Examining the medical equipment, he noted an IV attatched to his wrist, and different types of syringes. He pulled the IV out and hung it next to its bag, which was hooked on a thin metal pole. Picking up a syringe, he injected some out onto a bedside table, and tasted it.

_Strong stuff, _he thought. _Must be some new drug. _

As he sat, he examined his wounds and dressings. Aside from the bandages on his head, his right arm from the elbow to the shoulder was wrapped and held in a sling; his left thigh was wrapped tightly. Under the bandages, he could feel the dull throb of his wounds. Someone had cleaned them, but had administered no pain reliever. Probably short on supplies, this close to the front lines, he thought.

Careful so as to not aggravate his wounds, he lifted the covers off himself. As he eased towards the side of the bed, he realized two things: he was not fully clothed, and he was not the only one in the room. Bryan and Cass lay asleep on two fold-out cots, one to the left of the bed and the other at the end of the bed.

Jeremiah stood, searching for his pack. He rooted around until he found a pair of jeans, and slipped into him. He figured he could go shirtless. Quietly, he moved to his friends. As he neared, he was able to look at their wounds.

Cass was bandaged around the waist, and from the red spot in her back, he could tell where the bullet had landed. She had been lucky; perhaps two more inches to the left and it may have collided with her spine. A large band-aid had been placed over the left side of her forehead, Jeremiah guessed to stop a bleeding cut from falling. She was shirtless.

Bryan was a different story. In total he wore five different bandages: one entirely covered his left hand, one on each thigh, and two on his left ankle. An IV was implanted in his left arm, and Jeremiah noticed that he was receiving blood transfusions. He also noticed that he was missing two fingers on his left hand; ring and pinky. Jeremiah frowned, and sat in a chair in the corner of the room. He eyed the two motionless figures for what seemed like an hour. He thought back to when the raiders got to them, and finally of the time lost.

_Benny and the Khans must be at least to Boulder City_, he figured. Frustrated at his lack of carefulness in the canyon, he sighed and stood up.

Walking over to Cass, he knelt down and put his hands under her. As he picked her up from the cot, she stirred.

"Wh-what happened?" she asked, opening her eyes and brushing at her hair and face.

He looked at her, and put on his best smile. Even with their current situation, he tried to look somewhat handsome. "The raiders got the best of us. It's my fault, I wasn't careful enough. We all got beat pretty badly, though Bryan got the worst of it, I'm afraid. Lost two fingers, and is all bandaged up. I'm simply putting you on the bed, on account of you being a lady and all."

She lightly slapped his shoulder, with probably all the strength she had. "I'm flattered. Now, I don't need your sympathy. Don't expect me to start thinkin' you're cute or something over this," she teased playfully.

"You don't already?" he mused.

Weakly, she smiled. "No. I think you're uglier than a brahmin colt."

Jeremiah did his best to appear hurt. "That's not fair! You haven't seen my cleaned up yet," he smirked.

She laughed softly, and shook her head. "I guess that's my loss, then."

"Indeed it is, Miss Cassidy," Jeremiah winked at her again. She gave him a smile, and he set her in the bed. He found a spot on the edge of the bed, and watched as she drew up the covers around her.

"So," Cass began after she was comfortable. "What happens next? For you?"

"You aren't planning on sticking around long?" Jeremiah asked, startled.

She shrugged. "I don't know; still haven't decided if I like you yet. I must say, however, you do keep things exciting. And I've only known you for a few days."

"Well, you're welcome to stay. Ol' Youngster over there is as green as could be, and he'll stick around until I scare him too much."

"I'll keep that in mind," she mused.

"I'm going for a walk. Get some rest now," She raised a hand and turned over in the bed.

"Go put a shirt on," She pulled the covers closer as he rose from the bed and laughed.

Jeremiah walked to his bag and pulled out another fresh white shirt, his sweater having bullet holes in it. He put it on and slipped into some leather shoes.

Walking into the night, he noticed that their room was on the upper floor, right next to the outdoor stairs. The other, more obvious, thing he noticed was the giant dinosaur that dominated the town. Slowly, he made his way down the stairs, and into the motel lobby, the door of which was outside a gate behind the stairs.

Inside, the lobby was small and quaint, with the same grey racked paint on the walls. A percolator sat on a counter with corresponding coffee mugs, and a few tables with the corresponding chairs sat in the room. On the right, an older woman sat behind a cash register at the counter. As he hobbled over on his stiff leg, she looked at him from over her glasses.

"Well, well, well, look who is up! You're a fast healer, I'll tell you that," she said.

He leaned on the counter. "Yes, well, I guess I'm a lucky guy."

She extended her hand. "We haven't been formally introduced. I'm Jeannie May Crawford, caretaker and proprietor of the Dino-Dee-Lite Motel here in Novac."

"I'm Jeremiah Winters, pleased to meet you," They shook hands. "What are you doing up? It's nearly two in the morning."

"Oh, I caught a bit of insomia and decided to come clean the lobby," Jeannie May said, chuckling.

Jeremiah nodded. He walked over to the percolater, and started to brew some coffee. After a moment, he spoke. "Say, uh, have there been any peculiar folk come through here lately?" he asked.

She pursed her lips and brought a thin finger up to her forehead, thinking. "Well, not that I know of. Actually, now that I think about it, you may want to check with Manny Vargas, our daytime sniper. I think he had some friends stay with him. He should be up in the dino's' mouth from eight to nine."

Satisfied, Jeremiah grabbed his fresh coffee and turned back towards the door. "Thank you, ma'am." He opened the door back into the night air and sipped from his steaming mug. The brew seemed to tire him some. Usual for him, however. He noticed, the more he drank coffee, the more it seemed to wake him up in the morning, and put him to sleep at night.

Outisde, he looked around the town of Novac. Other than the dinosaur, there seemed to be a few tents outside the motel complex. Inside the fence of the motel, three bungalows lined the eastern side next to the dino. Behind the motel, a few houses populated the area. A bridge led past the dino and crossed the highway, leading east towards Nelson. A road led west, into the Black Mountain Range. Jeremiah decided he would do some more reconnaissance in the morning.

Cass was sound asleep when he returned. Grinning when he saw her chest slowly rise and fall with her breathing, Jeremiah flipped on a small radio on the nightstand by the couch. The sound of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons' "Oh, What a Night" filled the room. Enjoying the music, and his coffee, Jeremiah stood in the room, still grinning. He caught himself; was he really smiling at a woman? Yes, he was. Almost laughing at himself, he shook his head. Often he allowed himself to get carried away, which normally resulted in people getting hurt, or one-night stands with women who found him gone the next morning. The coffee was working; Jeremiah's eyes were drooping.

Before settling down, he came close to getting in bed next to Cass. _Not a good idea, Jeremiah. Especially since you met her not three days ago..._

Instead, he laid out on the couch. It barely accomodated his tall stature, and he found himself forced to curl up to fit wholly on it. In a few minutes, he was asleep.

The Next Morning

Yawning, he walked out of his room and turned his direction to the hulking dinosaur. A quick look at his watch told him the time was eight o'clock. Looking around, he saw people heading for either motel rooms, or the gate that lead to other parts of the seemingly small town. The small bungalows' doors were open, their residents leaning against them or sitting down outside in the chill morning air.

Opening the door to the dinosaur, Jeremiah entered what appeared to be a small store. A dark, balding man sat behind the counter. He stood as Jeremiah approached.

"Howdy! My name's Cliff Briscoe, and this here is the Dino-Bite Gift Shop. Can I interest you in anything? A T-Rex figurine, perhaps?" Jeremiah shook his head.

"No, thank you. Is Manny in the mouth?" he asked. Cliff nodded, saddened by not having a customer. Jeremiah continued up a staircase, and opened the door to the mouth of the dinosaur. A man in a black leather jacket was standing there, looing outside over the highway. Surprisingly, a red First Recon beret sat on his head. The man turned around.

"Hey man, what's up?" Manny Vargas asked. He was dark-skinned. A small moustache rested on his lip.

"Yeah uh, Manny right?" Vargas nodded. "I was told you may have seen some Great Khans come through here, with a guy in a checkered coat. You know anything about them?"

"Yeah, they stayed with me."

"Great. Could you tell me where they were headed?" Jeremiah asked. Manny looked ready to speak, but then stopped short. After a few seconds of silence, he spoke.

"Yeah, but I need something done. I have this ghoul problem. We keep getting these feral ghouls coming down from the REPCONN testing facility, and I can't leave my post here. If you go and take care of them, I'll gladly tell you about your friends."

Jeremiah waved him off, turning to the door. "I'm no errand boy. Looks like I'll find my information elsewhere."

"Whatever man," Jeremiah heard him say as he shut the door.

_What a letdown,_ Jeremiah thought. _Now what do I do? _He paid Cliff Briscoe no mind as he exited the dinosaur and walked back to the motel. As he climbed the staircase, he thought of the man named Benny, and wondered if they would ever meet again. He spent another few hours in the room, listening to the radio and draining the liqour supply. Cass woke up once, and the two made small conversations on the couch. Bryan remained in deep slumber, probably from the strange mix of drugs the local physician had given him. Cass went to sleep again after drowning a dose of Buffout with some whiskey. Jeremiah ended up doing the same.

He jolted awake at half past midnight. Joshua Graham had been in his dream again, as well as Vulpes Inculta. Jeremiah shook himself as he stood from the cot, careful not to wake Cass or Bryan, who slept not far away, both softly breathing. Pulling on his shoes and shirt, Jeremiah walked to the refrigerator, searching until he found a bottle of whiskey. He poured himself a shot, and pulled out two tablets of Buffout. Taking the two, he grabbed the whiskey and walked outside into the crisp night air.

The moon was out, and so were the stars. A single bungalow had its lights on, but save that no other lights in the town happened to be on. Over the lip of the whiskey bottle, Jeremiah eyed the dinosaur. He thought about his short talk with the sniper, Manny Vargas, and wondered if he could convince him to change his mind

"Oh, what the hell," he said aloud. "Might as well try again," Decision made, Jeremiah descended the stairs and walked toward the dinosaur, until he remembered that Vargas was the daytime sniper. Shrugging, he figured that he may as well talk to the night sniper. The two could have easily seen Benny come through. Climbing the stairs to the interior of the dino, he formulated the confrontation with the night sniper in his mind.

Slowly he climbed the staircase, and put his hand on the door handle, turning it. The door opened, and Jeremiah stepped through. This sniper one wore brown pants and a dirty white undershirt. Again, a red First Recon beret decorated his head. Jeremiah closed the door and the man started.

"Goddamn it!" the man said angrily as he turned around. "Don't sneak up on my like that will you. Wha..." his voice trailed off as he completed the turn, and the two faced each other.

Jeremiah gasped as he looked into the man's rigid, stone face. The cold, set jaw, the piercing eyes behind dark sunglasses, and even the crossed arms were exactly the same as he remembered. And he hadn't seen the man in nearly four years.

The man was Craig Boone.

"Craig?" Jeremiah asked. From behind his sunglasses, Boone squinted, leaning forward a bit. His mouth slightly fell open, but he quickly closed it.

"Jeremiah? You were the courier?" Boone asked. His voice was nearly a growl. Jeremiah nodded. Shaking his head, Boone sighed.

"You seem, tense. Expecting visitors?" he asked. His friend looked at him from behind his sunglasses. Then he turned back to the road out from Novac.

"Yeah, guess maybe I am. But not like you. Huh. Maybe it should've been you I was expecting all along. Why are you here?" He replied in his rough voice.

"I could ask you the same question," Jeremiah said. "The last I heard from you was you ran off to Vegas and married Carla. How'd you end up out here?"

Again, Boone sighed. He didn't speak for awhile. When he finally did, he was quiet. Reserved. "What you heard was true. After I got out, I got married. I didn't like Vegas much, so we moved out here, settled down. Townsfolk needed a nighttime watchman."

Jeremiah nodded. "I didn't do much. I got out, wallowed around in Freeside. Ended up with the Mojave Express. I've been tracking down the men who assaulted me in Goodsprings. They stole a delivery I was supposed to make. I think they headed through here, but your pal Vargas won't tell me where they were headed."

"Do these men happen to be a few of Khans, and a guy in a black and white sports coat?" Jeremiah nodded. "Yeah, they came through here. Don't know where they're going. Didn't bother finding out much about them, other than to know they knew Manny. I think they used to run together; the Khans and him, that is."

"Yeah, and I aim to find out where they went tomorrow. I won't be staying here long. Maybe I'll talk to you before I leave," With that, Jeremiah turned to head back down into the dino. Before he could, however, Boone spoke, and the tone of his voice made Jeremiah freeze.

"Maybe you shouldn't go. Not yet." His voice sounded urgent.

"Why is that?" Jeremiah asked, turning around.

"I need someone I can trust."

"For what reason?"

"I need you to find something out for me. I don't know if there's anything to find, but I need someone to try."

Jeremiah never saw it coming.

"My wife was taken from our home one night while I was on watch. They knew when to come, what route to take, and they only took Carla. Someone set it up, and I want to know who." Jeremiah stood motionless, gaping at his friend. He was speechless. He tried to make sense of the situation. A blank was formed. Carla had been a source of happiness for his friend, he knew that. The idea she was gone? It was unbelievable.

"You want me to track down your wife?" Jeremiah asked after a few seconds of silence.

"My wife's dead. I want the son of a bitch who sold her."

Jeremiah felt as if he had been shot in the head again. Dead? The punches just kept on coming. His heart sank as he looked at his friend. Now he understood what the word _loss _was all about.

"And, uh, what do I do if I find this person?" Jeremiah asked.

"Bring him out in front of the dinosaur while I'm on watch. Put on your Recon beret, so then I know you're with them. I'll handle the rest."

Jeremiah nodded, understanding what he meant. "Okay. I'll do it."

"We probably shouldn't speak until then."

"Alright. I'll be back. Stay up."

Jeremiah turned and walked back down the stairs. He felt as if the room was spinning. Too much realization at once. First Craig Boone himself, then Carla is kidnapped, and dead? Jeremiah wouldn't believe it, not for a second. Though he knew his friend wouldn't lie to him.

Putting it behind him, he focused on the job at hand. As he exited the dinosaur, he came face to face with an old man with a white beard and tattered clothes. The man looked at him strangely, then suddenly pulled back.

"Who sent you?" asked the strange man. "They tried to get me to talk before, but I ain't talkin' now, by gum."

Jeremiah raised his hands. "I don't mean any harm."

"Well, we'll see about that." The man raised an eyebrow. "If you come any closer, I'll stick you with my stickin' knife. Ol' Sticky's feelin' mighty ornery these days."

"Um, I think we can talk from this distance."

"Well, speak up a little, I can't hear you that well."

"Yes," Jeremiah said, a bit frazzled, "um, who are you?"

The man stuck out his chest. "Name's No-Bark. No-Bark Noonan. They call me that because they know what I got to say ain't bark, it's all bite."

To himself, Jeremiah chuckled. For a second, he thought No-Bark might stick him with Ol'Sticky, but the man just stood there staring. "So, uh, _No-Bark, _what do you do in town?"

No-Bark's eyes narrowed, and he spoke quietly. "I find things out, sonny-boy. The _real _things, get me?"

Jeremiah leaned closer to him. "Yeah, I get you. So, tell me what has been going on in town."

Crossing his arms, No-Bark spoke normally again. "There are things of peculiar nature goin' on at the McBride Corral. Every night, one of their herd meets a most unnatural death, and always there are holes on the body. Work of the chupacabra. They say 'But there are holes on the body, and there are bullets in them!' Well, that means we have a chupacabra with an automatic weapon. And that's when they get real quiet, because they see the predicament we're in."

Glancing around at their surroundings, Jeremiah made sure they were alone. Being seen with this man could ruin his reputation around town.

"Are...you alright?" he asked.

"God dog it, No-Bark, you done it again! You gone and let on that you know stuff!" Noonan growled.

Jeremiah looked No-Bark over. He appeared to be a normal man, living down in the gutters of society. He had a few scars on his head. Jeremiah shrugged. At least his stories were interesting. "Anything else?"

"People have been saying _ghouls _are coming from the old rocket test facility to the west. No, says I! It is actually the work of ghosts! _Commie ghosts! _They aim to fly to the moon, paint it red, and draw a face of Lenin on it!" Nodding intently to make it seem like he was actually interested, Jeremiah thought about Boone and Carla. He was barely able to comprehend her death. Suddenly he realized No-Bark and himself were staring at each other. Jeremiah started, and shook his head. "There anything else you like to know, mister?" Noonan asked.

Jeremiah shook his head, and was about to walk away when he thought of Boone again._ Might as well try_, he figured. "Yes, No-Bark? Do you know what happened to Boone's wife?" he asked.

No-Bark nodded quickly. "I saw it all happen! The shadowy figures, come late at night. Saw a few enter his room, and maybe one enter the lobby. I was there, never fear!"

"Who were they?" Jeremiah asked, as his heart began beating faster.

"Molerat men, come from Underneath to steal our women, with promises of giant mud mansions, and the latest designer appliances! They want our women's long hair, for wigs, as some say the molerat men are bald." He nearly yelled.

Jeremiah slouched, deflated. The man was certifiably insane. But No-Bark was still talking. "You see? The doctors can say all they want about the radscorpion stings that pierced my skull; I know the truth! And when No-Bark talks, he is all bite!"

The light was still on in his hotel room, Jeremiah noticed as he went around the tail of Dinky the Dinosaur. Maybe Cass was awake. Hopefully by the morning he could get some answers out of people. First, Manny Vargas, then No-Bark Noonan. He sighed again.

As he approached the stairs, he eyed the lobby. Could they have gone into the lobby? Jeremiah bit his lip, and thought for a few moments, before heading to the door. It was locked.

Quietly, Jeremiah cursed. Reaching into a pocket of his pants, he retrieved a screwdriver and bobby pin, which he kept in need of a locked door. Inserting the screwdriver and pin in the lock, he slowly turned until he heard and felt a click. He eased the door open.

Flipping on the light, he surveyed the room. Jeremiah walked over to the filing cabinets behind the counter, and rifled through them, finding a few bottle caps and old pieces of paper and receipts. Behind him, he checked the cash register. Again nothing. As he stepped away, his foot hit something metal.

Under him lay a safe. Black and square, it sat bolted into the floor. Kneeling, Jeremiah again twisted the screwdriver and bobby pin until he heard a satisfying click. Opening the safe, he found bottle caps and a few pieces of paper. One of the slips caught his eye.

"We, the representatives of the Consul Officiorum, have this day bargained and purchased from Jeannie May Crawford of the township of Novac the exclusive rights to ownership and sale of the slave Carla Boone for the sum of one thousand bottle caps and those of her unborn child for the sum of five hundred bottle caps, the receipt whereof is hereby acknowledged. We warrant the slave and her young to be sound, healthy, and slaves for life. We covenant with the said, Jeannie May Crawford, that we have full power to bargain and sell said slave and her offspring. Payment of an additional five hundred bottle caps will be due pending successful maturation of the fetus, the claim to which shall be guaranteed by possession of this document. M. Scribonius Libo Drusus et al.

Administrators of M. Licinius Crassus, Consul Officiorum ab Famulatus"

Jeremiah stepped back, amazed and speechless. The damn innkeeper? Unborn child? Boone was going to be a father? A daddy? He thought. Jeremiah felt empty, almost light. His friend, his best friend, had had a child. A child that had been ruthlessly taken before it could breath by heartless people. His wife, too.

The emptiness in his heart was soon replaced by anger, as he knew what to do now. But first, he had to go find his beret. Pocketing the bill of sale, he exited the lobby and made for his room.

Jeannie May's house was not hard to find. It was the closest home to the motel down the street that lead to the highway. Jeremiah didn't bother to knock.

Jeannie May was asleep, like any _decent _human being would be. Resisting the urge to pull his pistol on her, Jeremiah shoved her.

After a few pushes, she stirred.

"Something wrong?" she asked as she sat up in the bed.

"Get up, get your shoes on," he ordered, coldly.

"What's the matter?"

"There's something you need to see, out in front of the dinosaur."

"Well, okay."

He waited until she had her shoes on, then quickly lead her outside. When they reached the street, he slipped a hand into his pocket, retrieving his red First Recon beret. Twice she tried asking what was the matter, but he kept his eyes forward, fixated on an overpass that was situated in front of the open mouth of the dino, where Boone would be waiting.

Almost there now. Behind him, he could hear her feet hitting the hard concrete, and tried not to imagine her face when she was shot. He thought of Carla and Boone's unborn son or daughter, and his features hardened again.

Jeremiah walked onto the overpass, and turned around. Jeannie May walked up to him, and opener her mouth to speak.

Before she could, the sound of a hunting rifle tore through the air, and her head exploded.

Jeremiah stepped back as blood spouted from the opening at the top of her neck. He looked up to the dinosaur's mouth, and saw Boone, gun smoking, looking out.

Smiling faintly, Jeremiah headed to the dinosaur.

"So that's it then. How'd you know?" Boone asked him when he arrived.

Jeremiah fished the bill of sale from his pocket, and handed it to him.

"They left this."

Boone read the paper, and nodded. "Yeah. It'd be like them to keep records of this sort of thing. Well, thanks I suppose," Jeremiah noticed nothing new in Boone's face. No sadness, anger, or any emotion at all. Just a long, once-handsome, cold face. Not a trace of regret. Mission accomplished, that's all it was. Jeremiah frowned.

"Are you an outlaw now?" he asked. Boone shook his head.

"No. This stuff happens out here all the time. People get used to it, but life goes on. Wasteland justice."

"What will you do now?"

Boone sat for a moment, thinking, before answering. "I don't know. I know one thing: I won't be staying here. This town has nothing to offer anymore. Just regret. Maybe I'll wander, like you. Hunting Legion."

"You could come with me." Jeremiah said, hopeful.

Again, Boone shook his head. "That isn't a good idea. It wouldn't be helpful, for either of us."

"Snipers work in pairs. We'll be stronger as a group. Together, we can kill more legionaries."

Boone was lost in thought. Finally, he nodded.

"Yeah, I guess you're right. When do we leave?"

"Whenever the rest of my party is recovered, and your pal Manny spills the beans on my attackers."

"Come see me in my room sometime tomorrow. We'll get it out of him, somehow. Go now. Check on your friends."

Nodding, Jeremiah slapped Boone on the shoulder.

"It's good to have you back, partner."

Boone nodded, and turned back to view the wastes. Jeremiah watched him for a few seconds, as he looked east. Towards the Legion.


	7. Confrontation in Boulder City

**Novac**

The cots were very loud, Jeremiah found out the next morning. The green fabric had squeaked loudly when he rolled over around eight thirty, and all it did was make him angry. After all, four and a half hours of sleep did not hold a man over, especially after the man had been shot multiple times over the past few days.

Nevertheless, Jeremiah still found himself getting out of bed at eight thirty-one. Stretching, he walked into the bathroom that connected to the kitchen. The light, a bright motel white, blinded him when he turned it on. After his eyes adjusted, he looked at himself in the mirror.

His brown hair was getting longer, and now nearly covered the scar on the left side of his head. The beard needed work; it was making him look like a grizzled mountain man from an old western. Yawning, he took out his straight razor. After doing some minor trimming, he shrugged out of his sleepwear, and stepped into the shower.

Letting the semi-hot water run over him felt nice. He savored every time a shower presented itself to him. It gave him time to think, something that could turn to be quite valuable in the wasteland, more so when he needed answers, fast. And, it didn't hurt to be clean, especially since showers were a rare occasion in the Mojave.

Stepping out of the shower, he returned to the main room, and put on his clothes. When he looked at the brown leather jacket, however, he realized that it had two bullet holes, a tear from a knife blade, and large opening across the back from rolling on the concrete when he tripped two days ago. Sadly, Jeremiah knew it was time to retire his beauty, and find a new one. What was the store owner's name? Clint Biscuit? Shrugging, Jeremiah threw it in a nearby wardrobe, and turned back to the room.

With a start, he saw that Cass was not on the bed. Bryan lay sleeping on his cot, but Cass was nowhere to be seen. Jeremiah figured she must have gotten up before he did, and left to see the town. Jeremiah shrugged, and returned to his cot, ignoring its loud squeaks. He was nearly asleep when a there was a loud knock on the door. Groaning, Jeremiah rose and walked to the door. Opening it revealed Craig Boone. At seeing his friend, Jeremiah nodded and waved him inside.

"Morning, Jeremiah." Boone stated flatly. He took a seat in a chair close to the bed, and eyed Bryan's sleeping figure on a nearby cot. Jeremiah wandered into the kitchen, and turned on the percolator.

"Shouldn't you be asleep?" He called in reply.

"I don't sleep much anymore. Not since Carla died."

"I see," Jeremiah said, taking a chair opposite Boone, "you never really told me what happened."

"Yeah. And I don't plan on doing so, either. Doesn't seem to matter much. Didn't matter to folks around here much. A few days of sympathy, that was all."

"Well, I'm your friend. We served together. I knew Carla, too. She was wonderful."

Boone's voice matched his face, unwavering. "She was. But she is dead now. No use crying about something that you can't change. If I could have changed it, then I would have. There was nothing I could have done."

"Still, wouldn't it help me to understand you more? You've changed a lot since I last saw you."

"This is a conversation I am not ready to have yet. And don't keep holding your breath about when I will, if I ever will," Boone said, rising to attend to the steaming percolator. Jeremiah sighed and scratched his newly trimmed beard. This was something he should have thought about in the shower.

Returning with two cups of coffee, Boone changed the subject, "Have you had a chance to confront Manny about your attackers?"

Jeremiah shook his head. "No. He wants me to take care of some ghouls you are apparently having trouble with."

"Well, I may have answered your question for you." At seeing Jeremiah's perplexed expression, Boone slid a slip of paper across the small table between them. Jeremiah picked it up and examined it. "When he went on watch I let myself into his room. Those Khans that stayed with him, they were indeed his friends. They left a note to him on his terminal. I wrote it down there for you."

Reading the paper certainly put Jeremiah in a good mood. The note, addressed to Manny from McMurphy, spoke of how Benny had become nervous after stealing the platinum chip from "his boss", and how the group was heading to Boulder City. It ended saying that when Manny remembers where he belongs that the Khans will welcome him with open arms.

Jeremiah tossed the paper back to Boone. "Boulder City. Makes since, its right up the highway from here."

Boone nodded. "When can we leave?"

"I need to go talk to your doctor about Bryan there. As soon as he is good, we're out."

Again, Boone nodded. "Okay then. Tomorrow morning, lets say. I'll wake you up."

Jeremiah nodded. The two shook hands, and Boone headed for the door.

"Craig?" Jeremiah said as he reached the door. Boone turned after placing his hand on the handle.

"It's good to see you again, all things aside." Boone stood at the door a moment, and gave a small nod before walking into the early morning sunshine.

* * *

The owner of the Dino-Bite Gift Shop was named Cliff Briscoe. Jeremiah winced at not having remembered the man's name, but nonetheless stood in the stomach of the big dinosaur after lunch. "I need a new jacket." he told Cliff Briscoe.

Cliff's face darkened, and he frowned. "Darn it, no one buys the T-Rexes...well, jackets?" Jeremiah nodded, and Cliff moved to a nearby closet. "Now that I think about it, we just got a jacket in...brown...cotton if I remember right..." Bending down, he unlocked the door. He was inside for barely a second, when he returned with the jacket.

Dark brown, made of cotton, Jeremiah knew it was perfect. "I'll take it. While I'm here, you have any weapons and ammunition?" he asked.

Cliff raised a finger to his head and scratched it, thinking. "Actually, I have the most peculiar gun." Going back into the closet, he returned with a black pistol, smaller than a revolver though similar in make and shape. Jeremiah took it, and looked it over. A cylinder much like a revolver's held 5.56 millimeter bullets, and two lights were mounted on the side, one red, one green. Cliff handed him six rounds, and Jeremiah pushed a button next to the safety. Much to his surprise, the cylinder popped open, red light flashing. Inserting the bullets caused the cylinder to insert itself back into the gun. The green light lit up.

Smiling, Jeremiah nodded. "I'll take this too, and any 5.56 and .357 ammunition you got. How much would that be?"

Cliff thought for a few moments, and jotted down an equation on his hand. Suddenly, he stopped, smiled, and reached for something behind the counter.

* * *

**The Next Morning**

Jeremiah and his three compatriots walked north along Highway 93. Cass walked a few paces behind him, and Bryan hobbled next to her. Boone brought up the rear. On his back, Jeremiah wore his new jacket, and had his revolver, Lucky in one holster on his hip. In another holster on his other hip, he wore his new pistol, which he promptly named That Gun. His pack weighed a little more on account of an extra item inside: a small T-Rex figurine, compliment of Cliff Briscoe.

The four walked north, towards Boulder City. The city which became ruins after the First Battle of Hoover Dam was where they would meet Benny and the Great Khans, and where Jeremiah would reclaim his platinum chip.

The city, except for the saloon, was destroyed. When Caesar's Legion was about to march across Hoover Dam, NCR Rangers and First Recon sharpshooters had lured legionaries into the city, and had detonated rigged explosives once they were inside. The resulting explosion had left Boulder City decimated, even if it had won the battle for the NCR.

As they approached the city, they noticed a rock, marble, standing at the road into town, with a lone soldier standing in front of it. Upon further inspection, they found it was a monument to those who fell in the line of fire at Hoover Dam. They stopped to pay their respects, not wishing to bother the man who stood in uniform, who had come to find the name of his brother or sister presumably. The four moved deeper into the ruins, walking until they came across a barricade, with an NCR officer standing outside the door leading through it.

"Excuse me," the man said, "but where do you think you're going? I can't let you into the ruins without a reason."

"Is something wrong, um...Lieutenant Monroe?" Jeremiah asked, reading the man's uniform name.

"We have a hostage situation involving some Great Khans who are hiding in the ruins. They took two of my men hostage, and are holding them in a house next to their safe house. We haven't been able to get them out for fear of the Khans killing them."

Jeremiah's heart fluttered. The Khans, Benny's Khans, were here! _I'm so close, _he thought.

"Well, I'm ex First Recon, along with my friend here." he pointed to Boone's beret, and pulled out his own. "I could go in and negotiate for the release of your men."

The Lieutenant looked the four over, especially Cass and Bryan. Jeremiah held a straight face, not wanting to appear excited. Finally, Monroe pointed at him.

"Only you. Your friends can wait with the rest of my men." Cass began to protest, but Jeremiah silenced her.

"Thank you, Lieutenant."

"If we hear shooting, I'll order my men to attack. Be careful." Jeremiah nodded, and the four entered the ruins. Looking over at Cass, Jeremiah saw her face was red, but she quickly pulled a bottle of whiskey from her shoulder pack, and took several large swallows.

Through the barricade, NCR soldiers lined a rubble pile, watching across open ground to two lone buildings. One appeared to be intact, the Khans' safe house. The other had no roof or doors, and this was where Jeremiah guessed the hostages were being held. Motioning for his friends to join the line of soldiers, Jeremiah hopped the rubble pile and began walking towards the safe house.

As he neared, he saw a Khan poke his head, and a gun, out from around a walled bus stop. Jeremiah raised his hands away from the holsters at his side.

"I'm the negotiator." he said. The Khan nodded quickly at the door to the building, and Jeremiah continued walking on. He saw a Khan in the frame of a window in the roofless building, and noticed two NCR soldiers tied up in it also. Noting the presence of two other Khans, Jeremiah entered the safe house.

The interior was dark, except for a lone lantern on a counter next to a cash register. The place appeared as though it was once a shop of some kind. As soon as the door closed, two Khans raised their weapons at him. Jeremiah pulled That Gun and Lucky from their holsters, and aimed at the two Khans. Slowly, he approached the counter. Jessup was there, with a look of shock, and maybe some awe, on his face.

"You're...you're that courier Benny wasted back in Goodsprings! You're supposed to be dead!" He said after catching his breath. Jeremiah stared at him with a sly smile, and held Lucky pointed level to the bridge of his nose.

"I got better."

Jessup coughed and shuffled back against the wall, still holding a sawed off shotgun in Jeremiah's direction.

"And here I thought us Khans were tough to kill." Jeremiah nodded ever so slightly. "So, what happens now?" Jessup asked.

"Where's the platinum chip?"

Jessup looked at his comrade, a bald man Jeremiah could not remember, and lowered his weapon. Jeremiah did the same, holstering That Gun and Lucky.

"Don't have it," Jessup said, "Benny stole it right before he stabbed us in the back. He killed McMurphy, and is probably back at the Strip right now laughing at me."

Jeremiah stepped close to the counter, placing his hands on it. He couldn't believe it. All this way to have to keep pushing, to Vegas? His heart sank, and he punched the cash register. Jessup eyed him awkwardly.

"I want some answers." Jeremiah said angrily. "What do you know about Benny?" he asked before the Khan could refuse. Looking up, Jessup backed again into the wall.

"He - he is one of the Chairmen. You know, big shots who run The Tops Casino in Vegas." He mumbled under his breath, "Should'a known the caps were too good to be true..."

"Why did Benny betray you?"

"He's a snake, that's why!" Jessup said, standing straight. "He owed us the rest of the pay for the job, and I guess he didn't want to pay up."

"The platinum chip?"

"Just a big fancy poker chip, that's all I know. Don't know why anybody would make it out of platinum. That's all I know, swear."

Jeremiah nodded, and turned to the door. Jessup called to him, and when he turned around threw an engraved lighter at him.

"Its Benny's. Dropped it when he ran off and left us here. Thought you might like it." Jeremiah nodded. "So, we free to go?"

Jeremiah turned, and faced the two Khans. "Thanks for the information and all," two Khans, one with a sawed-off shotgun, one with a ten millimeter sub machine gun, "but..."

Jeremiah prepared himself. "I still can't forgive you." Suddenly, That Gun was in his hand. One shot sent Jessup's counterpart backwards into the wall, a bullet in his throat. Jessup screamed and raised the shotgun, and Jeremiah rolled forward. Jessup fired and yelled again as Jeremiah vaulted the counter and slapped the shotgun from his hand. Standing on the counter, Jeremiah kicked, the heel of his hiking boot connecting with Jessup's nose. The Khan slammed into the wall, and slid down to the floor.

Jeremiah stood over him, pointing That Gun at his temple. Blood pouring from his broken nose, Jessup raised his hands in an attempt at surrender.

"It was just business..." he choked out.

"No. It was personal." Jeremiah said as he pulled the trigger. Turning, he exited the building, only to be greeted by a firefight.

Lieutenant Monroe had stayed true. The NCR soldiers had attacked, and were now advancing upon the Great Khan position. Khans were taking cover, some behind the bus stop, others in the house. Jeremiah dove next to the bus stop, and fired into the house.

Suddenly, a Khan was on him, the same that had been inside the bus stop. Jeremiah slapped at him with That Gun, but it was to no avail, the Khan had leverage. Swatting his knife away, the Khan flashed a knife from his belt. Coming down, Jeremiah cross both arms across the Khan's in an attempt to parry. However, the Khan outmatched him in strength.

Slowly, the knife began to come down.

Jeremiah watched as the tip of the knife got inches from his chest, and inches from his heart. Inches separated life and death.

There came a boom, reminiscent of thunder, and the Khan, wide-eyed, slumped over. Gasping for air, Jeremiah looked around. Boone came running up, the muzzle of his hunting rifle smoking.

"Need a hand?" he said, offering his hand. Smiling, Jeremiah took it. They crept around the bus stop, looking into the building just in time to see NCR soldiers overrun it. The Khans were shot down, and the soldiers rushed to free their comrades.

The Lieutenant walked up, and shook hands with Jeremiah, nodding and saying something about "A job well done". Jeremiah was not listening, however. He was thinking about Jessup, and Benny, and Vegas, Cass ran up to him and Boone, Bryan hobbling close behind her.

"You find what you were looking for?" Bryan asked. Jeremiah shook his head, and there was a collective sigh from everyone, except Boone.

"He betrayed the Khans and stole the chip. Here, I have his lighter." Jeremiah said, holding the silver lighter in the sun.

"Did they say where he was headed?" Cass asked. Jeremiah looked at her, and grinned.

"Vegas, baby."


	8. All Shook Up

**Freeside**

Freeside was just as Jeremiah remembered it: a town full of whores, drug addicts, the homeless, no-good Followers of the Apocalypse, and (of course) the Kings. The gang that operated out of the School of Impersonation strove to live exactly like a man known as "The King." they were a bunch of men in leather jackets and slick-backed hair who shook their hips quite suggestively and tried to seem like hard asses. Jeremiah had never trusted them, or bothered to listen to what they had to say.

Surprisingly enough, he had a feeling he would soon approach The King, asking for a ticket into Vegas. it was storming as the four entered the east gate. Jeremiah led the others through the trash filled streets, ignoring the lowlife that sauntered around. They passed the bodyguards-for-hire that stood near the gate, and every gate into Freeside. Most could fight as much as a drunk could make sense, Jeremiah knew. The light inside Mick and Ralph's Hardware flickered in their store, and went out when they walked by, probably on account of the storm. A sign on the door flipped around, reading "Closed." Jeremiah walked on in the rain, his companions behind him.

The bright neon lights of Vegas shone through the rain and clouds. Looking up, Jeremiah smirked. Vegas meant Benny. Vegas meant revenge.

Finally, they reached the Atomic Wrangler. Jeremiah hadn't been back in three years, since he had promised the Garrett twins that he would return to pay his tab. James Garrett certainly looked surprised when he walked through the door and up to the bar.

"Well well well! Long time no see! What can I do for you?" he said. Jeremiah took out a bag of caps and threw it on the bar.

"One thousand, two hundred and fifty caps. My tab, remember?" James looked at the bag wide-eyed, and then back at Jeremiah, who smiled. Shaking his head, he picked up the bag and placed it under the counter.

"Anything else, Jeremiah?" he asked again as he took out a rag to wipe the bar.

"Yeah, my room?" Garrett didn't even look up from wiping the bar.

"About that..." he began. Jeremiah raised an eyebrow. "I can't really let you stay anymore. The King has forbid anybody in Freeside from offering rooms to NCR folk," Garrett looked at the party each in turn before continuing. "And seeing that you all are NCR folk, well..."

Jeremiah stared. He knew the King and his followers had never enjoyed NCR citizens, but he never thought it would come to this.

"Can you get me a drink, at least?" he finally asked. James Garrett nodded, and turned to the room in the back wall. Cass spoke fast.

"Barkeep," she said enthusiastically. Garrett looked back. "Make that two," she said with a smile.

* * *

Men with rank hair grease and polished leather jackets filled The King's School of Impersonation. Almost all spoke with a voice that reminded Jeremiah of chewing food. Pictures that hung the walls of the building's lobby showed a man holding a guitar and microphone, singing and dancing in front of crazed girls. This was the man they called "The King," who they take after. Though he was not around, the Kings still had a King who tried his best to live up to the first.

Jeremiah was alone in the building. After leaving the Wrangler, he had sent his companions to the Old Mormon Fort to seek refuge with the Followers of the Apocalypse while he went to discuss business with the King. Outside, the rain fell in the dark. As he walked up to a door leading out of the lobby, a man stopped him.

"Well, what have we got here?" the man said in the drawl typical of the Kings' members. "Another petitioner for the King?"

"Yeah, I'd like to see him, if at all possible." Jeremiah answered.

The man almost laughed. "What's it worth to see the big man?" Jeremiah nearly laughed.

"I'm not paying to see anybody."

"You don't pay, you don't see him."

Jeremiah eyed him curiously. A man like him obviously wanted attention, and to cause trouble. "Look, man, I'm just here to pay my respects. Besides, I don't want to embarrass you in front of your friends. So why don't you stop wasting your time and open the door?"

"You know what? I like you. Head on through. The King is the big man in the center of the room, wearing the jacket. Can't fuckin' miss him."

Jeremiah nodded, and the man opened the door. It led into a wide room, with tables and chairs spread around. At the opposite wall from the door there was a stage. On the stage a man with slicked back hair and a white undershirt was singing some old world song, trying to impress the dismal crowd. A man in a cream-colored jacket sat at a table in the center of the room, next to a dog. Taking a second glance, Jeremiah noticed the dog's brain was in a glass case on the top of his head, and his fur line covered his back half. The dog looked half-animal, half-robot. Metal covered his front half, where fur should have rested.

"You The King?" Jeremiah asked the man. Turning, the man looked up.

"Look Rexie, we got a visitor!" The King shook his head. "Poor boy, he hasn't been feeling well lately. Yes, I'm the King. Take a seat, and tell me what brings you here." Jeremiah pulled a chair over to the table, across from the King.

"I heard you banned anybody from housing NCR civilians recently, King." Solemnly, the man nodded.

"Indeed I did. Local NCR squatters have been invading on the privacy of Freeside residents. I don't like that. Let the NCR take care of their own. I'm all shook up over this, but my decision is made."

Jeremiah leaned across the table. "Look, I served with the NCR. First Recon. You know what that means? I can hold my own against tough guys like you. And I don't appreciate you telling me that I can't stay here. So, what're we going to do about this?"

"Son, if you're thinkin' about starting a fight, you better consider the building full of Kings just waiting to pounce when someone lays a hand on _The_ King."

He had a point, Jeremiah knew. The minute he raised a gun or a knife the entire organization would descend on him.

"Listen," Jeremiah said, leaning across the table. "I really don't want to hurt anybody, 'specially when they haven't done anything to deserve a hurting. However, you've hurt my pride, and I love my damn pride. And you see, I was First Recon. Got a beret in here that says I was," Jeremiah patted his pack. "Which means I can climb the nearest tall building a shoot you through your window, and seeing as though you are _The _King, I would assume you have a window with a beautiful view of Freeside. What'll it be, big man?"

The King looked him over, especially the two pistols that hung in their holsters. Finally, he smiled. "You have spunk, kid. I'll cut you a deal. If you do some work around town for me, you NCR fellas can stay where you want. Sound good?"

The King sat back, waiting for an answer. Jeremiah really did not want to run errands for this guy. However, he knew if he did kill him, he'd be gunned down before he reached the door. If he did make it that far, his toll-charging minion on the other side would surely put an end to him. Against his will, he nodded.

"Alright, deal. What do you want me to do?"

* * *

Though Freeside had many thugs and other raucous residents, light shone on various people who tried to influence the community in a positive way. The King was one of these people, Jeremiah came to realize. He cared deeply for the people he protected, and tried reaching out to them when they became needy. The King was out to show that Freeside was not to be trifled with; the people who lived in the town are strong enough to stand on their own.

Even so, Freeside had many, many problems. Food was scarce. Drug usage was skyrocketing. Muggings took place daily. These problem were why the bodyguards-for-hire came onto the scene. The bodyguards, some Kings, some freelance, stationed themselves at the gates into Freeside, waiting for a tourist or some other wastelander stopped by. The bodyguard would, for a fee, take them wherever they pleased safely.

Orris was, to Jeremiah's eye, just a regular bodyguard-for-hire. He wore spiked metal armor and armed himself with a K-Bar combat knife and a large, hunting-type revolver. Very tall, and athletically built. The King told Jeremiah to hire Orris, and to scope out his business. Apparently, rumors were circulating that he was doing "shady business." If he was, Jeremiah would certainly find out.

Orris stood next by two Kings at the north gate, waiting for someone to pass by. Jeremiah, dressed in his plain white pullover, walked up to him, acting like a poor traveler caught in the storm.

"Excuse me, sir, could you help me?" Jeremiah asked Orris, trying to sound like pitiful.

Orris looked down at him. "Yes, I can good sir. How much are you willing to pay for the safest tour of Freeside?"

Jeremiah struggled in his pockets. "Oh...um, how about two hundred caps?" He held out a bag and clinked the caps around. Orris smiled.

"That'll do just fine. If you could follow me - and try to keep up. We'll be moving at a brisk pace."

The two set off down the road, south, towards Vegas. As they ran, Orris spouted off various facts about Freeside. He led Jeremiah past the Old Mormon Fort, whilst saying that it was the oldest building in Freeside. They passed through a bus, into the inner part of Freeside, where the Kings' School and Atomic Wrangler were. Again, Orris mentioned something about the Wrangler.

Suddenly, Orris turned and stopped him. "Hold up," he said, "I don't like the looks of those guys up ahead. Don't worry, I know another way around." Looking, Jeremiah noticed some rough-and-tough characters up ahead wielding baseball bats. Orris took off down a side alley which back around a building. Jeremiah followed.

As they reached the corner of the building, Orris turned right, and ran along the back side. When Jeremiah turned, he noticed Orris had picked up speed. Adjusting to match his speed, Jeremiah hurried to catch up. Reaching the corner, Orris turned, and reached for his revolver. Three shots rang out, and the bodyguard turned around. Panting when he reached the corner, Jeremiah noticed four seemingly dead figures on the ground in the alley leading back to Las Vegas Boulevard.

"You better be glad you hired me, or you'd be up to your ass in lowlife right about now," Orris told him when looked up from the bodies, the barrel of his revolver smoking.

Looking again at the bodies, Jeremiah counted four. Orris had only fired three shots. One of the downed thugs' chest appeared to rise and fall, as if breathing. "Mind telling me how you killed four men with three shots, Orris?" Jeremiah asked, suspicious.

His eyes went wide, and searched the air for an answer. "Eh, uh, noticed that, did you?" Orris said, sputtering. "Well, see, I keenly aimed a shot through some soft tissue, and it hit the man behind him."

"Or, you staged this whole charade to rake in money," The rain made Jeremiah squint at him, but he could clearly see Orris' discomfort. Again, the bodyguard searched for an excuse. After a few moments of silence, he straightened.

"That's an interesting theory you have there, but I'm going to have to ask you to keep it to yourself until we are safely to the gate," Jeremiah looked back at the bodies, one of which was obviously breathing.

Walking over to one, Jeremiah kicked hard. The man rolled over, groaning and grasping at his side. Orris fidgeted, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and back again. Jeremiah stepped over to him.

"I'd like my money back, Orris. And, sadly, The King will have to hear about this."

Orris bent his hulking frame, in a combat stance. "Not if you're dead. Let's get this guy, fellas!" Orris and three of the thugs were upon him in one moment. Jeremiah reached for Lucky, but was struck in the back of the head by a bat. He fell, and the thugs jumped on him, beating him everywhere they could reach. Pain shot through Jeremiah like lightning, and through the rain and the red in his eyes, he saw Orris standing over the scene with a wild grin on his face.

The percussive blast of a shotgun tore one of the thugs away from his vicious assault. The other two froze as their friend screamed in agony, grasping at the side of his body that was no longer apart of him. Orris turned, too, in time to see a fiery redhead walking towards the group. She wore a torn cowboy hat and a leather jacket. Around her neck, her father's pendant swayed in the rain. Jeremiah's heart jumped; Cass.

"What do we have here, boys?" Orris asked, smiling. Cass stopped five feet from where Jeremiah lay, the two thugs on top of him. She pointed the shotgun at Orris, who raised two hands in defense. "Shouldn't someone as pretty as you be at the Wrangler? I have a room, you could meet me there in about twenty minutes. After I'm done with your friend, of course," At this, Jeremiah choked. Orris was asking for some wasteland justice. Cass grinned. The sound of rain filled the air, everyone waiting for someone to make a move. A lull followed, the only sound being the rain slapping the concrete.

Jeremiah threw a punk from himself, and slammed his left foot into the chest of the other; minimal damage. The thugs fell and rolled away, reaching for their weapons. Cass shot one with the shotgun, and moved to reload. Orris, realizing her weapon held only two rounds, raised his revolver. Jeremiah saw, and adrenaline kicked into high gear. Fire surged through his body at the sight of Cass at gunpoint. In a raging fury, he swiveled into a sitting position, and in one fluid motion retrieved Lucky from its holster, and fired.

The revolver in the bodyguard's hand snapped in half and flew from his grip. Immediately, he grabbed his hand, which now contained shards of hunting revolver. He looked at Jeremiah, shocked. Pulling his knife from his belt, he charged. Jeremiah braced himself, and at the last possible moment, brought two hands up and grabbed the arm Orris had been swinging forward. Jeremiah twisted, and the knife fell away. So did Lucky.

A few feet away, Cass reloaded. She saw the last remaining thug charge Jeremiah as he grappled with Orris, and blew him away. The four thugs lay on the ground, three dead, one still reeling from Jeremiah's kick. Cass finished him off, and went to reload again.

Jeremiah and Orris were tearing at each other's throats. One would land a hit, and think they were about to finish him when the other would land a hit of his own. Jeremiah threw a jab that connected near his opponent's collarbone, but the metal armor caught most of it. Orris slammed a fist into Jeremiah's stomach, and he crumpled. That Gun fell free of its holster and bounced a few feet away. Cass watched, and pointed the gun when Orris stepped towards her, laughing. Jeremiah turned on the ground. Pain from a broken rib coursed throughout his body, and the breath had escaped from his lungs.

"Hey now, girlie, why don't you put the gun down so we can go have some fun?" Orris was saying. Cass replied by cocking the shotgun. Orris was at the tip of the barrel now. Jeremiah watched in horror as Cass blinked back rain, keeping the shotgun pointed at the bodyguard. Her hands shook, in fright, which Jeremiah took note of. Suddenly, Orris flinched forward. Cass pulled the trigger.

_Click._

Jeremiah shut his eyes, and gave a slight groan. Orris grinned on the other side of the shotgun, and laughed a cold, heartless laugh. "Must be jammed, pretty lady," he said. Slapping the gun away, he grabbed Cass and picked her up. He walked over to That Gun, laying a few feet from where Cass had been standing. Grunting, he picked it up. Jeremiah looked around, trying to find something. His eyes rested on the K-Bar.

"Better luck next time, pal," Orris called to Jeremiah as he walked away with Cass over his shoulder. She was yelling at him and crying, pleading for help. "I'll have fun with your girlfriend. See you in hell!" He was laughing now. Jeremiah reached the knife and struggled into a standing position. Taking deep breaths to refill his empty lungs, he began walking. After a few seconds, he ran at Orris.

The bodyguard heard, through the rain. He spun, bringing That Gun up. Being tall, and with a fully-grown woman on his shoulders, Jeremiah knew the probability of Orris remaining balanced and shooting straight were slim. His quick calculations were correct. Two shots zipped past Jeremiah, one high and one to the left. Still running forward, eyes set, face hard, Jeremiah brought the knife out in front of him. His heart was pumping, full of anger and adrenaline. Two feet from Orris, he started to walk. Orris raised That Gun, but the pistol didn't respond. Looking down, he noticed the red light flashing. The cylinder was out, asking for more bullets. Jeremiah smiled as he easily took the gun from his hand. Orris looked at him, eyes full of fear.

"Put the girl down. Now," Jeremiah said. Orris complied, setting Cass on her feet. She quickly moved behind Jeremiah. "You have three seconds before this knife becomes apart of your spinal cord."

Orris turned, almost fell, and ran back down the alley behind the building. Jeremiah picked That Gun up from the ground, and loaded a single round. The green light shone, and the cylinder mechanically placed itself in the gun. Jeremiah aimed, and fired. Down the alley, the bullet hit Orris in the neck with a loud _Smack! _and a fountain of red exploded into the air above him. The bodyguard fell, twitched a few times, and finally rested. Jeremiah lowered the gun, and filled it with six rounds. He retrieved Lucky, and holstered both weapons. The K-Bar he fit into the side pocket of his pack. Turning, he walked to Cass.

"Cass?" Jeremiah asked, standing behind her. She was looking away, towards the dead body of Orris. "Cass, you okay?" he asked again, as he reached a hand out and touched her shoulder. She turned, feeling his hand. Looking at her, Jeremiah couldn't tell if she was crying, or if it was the rain. Her mouth slanted downwards, and she looked shell-shocked. Her wet, red hair fell down around her face. Her unsure eyes darted between him and Orris. Jeremiah felt a pang of remorse, quickly replaced by a burning passion.

"Hey," Jeremiah said, putting both hands on her shoulders. "You're okay. He can't hurt you now."

The words had no sooner left his mouth when she burrowed into his shoulder and began to cry. Jeremiah, taken aback, put his hands around her. Never truly uncomfortable around women, Jeremiah closed his eyes. Since his last real relationship with a women, many years had passed. Most of the recent encounters had been with women whose name he hadn't known, in a small room in the Atomic Wrangler. Quick, firey meetings, which only served to fulfill his pleasure only a little. Now, holding Cass in the rain, he felt different. A new feeling rushed through him; love. Standing on the concrete, he knew it was true. Now he had a new purpose. He was a new man. He smiled.

Jeremiah stroked Cass' wet hair, and she lifted her face from his shoulder.

"Come on, the others will be getting worried. And you still have to tell me why you're here," Jeremiah told her. Nodding, the two began to walk towards the boulevard, and back towards Freeside.

* * *

**A/N: Well, this is disappointing. I really wanted to be done with all of GI Blues by this time, so I could get to Vegas next chapter. So, we will be spending one more chapter in Freeside. Stay tuned! Vegas draws near!**


	9. GI Blues

**Freeside**

The King was complacent when Jeremiah and Cass returned to the School, soaking wet. He simply nodded as Jeremiah told him what happened to Orris.

"You won't be having any trouble again," he finished. The King raised an eyebrow.

"So it went down like that, huh?" Jeremiah nodded. Cass stood off to the side of the table they occupied. Since the fight with Orris and the thugs, she had not spoken. Her eyes were glazed, and she teetered off balance. Kings walked by and wolf-whistled at her, which would normally fuel her alcoholic temper. This day, however, she paid them no mind. Jeremiah tried to keep his eyes from her.

The King was talking to him, anyway. "You listenin', sonny?" Jeremiah shook himself, and nodded. "Good, because what I need you to do now is probably the most important job in all of Freeside."

Jeremiah gazed at The King in his cream colored jacket. He was already sending him out again? "What do you need me to do, King?"

"As you have probably seen in your time here before -"

"How'd you know I was here before?" Jeremiah asked him, curious.

The King sighed. "Kid, everyone knew you were here. NCR folk always stick out, especially ex-military. Plus, you were - are - ex-First Recon. You stuck out like a sore thumb. And when we found out that you had enough money to rent a room in the Wrangler?" He laughed. "We knew you were something special. Hell, you sent three of my guys to the Followers with broken noses and headaches."

Jeremiah smiled, and remembered the night in the Wrangler, the night before he left. He never realized the punks had been Kings. Guess it didn't matter now.

"Anyway," The King said, pouring two glasses of brandy. "The locals don't take kindly to free-grazers and squatters, especially those that come from the NCR. These folks don't take kindly to being disliked, and so lately violence has risen. Recently, a few of my friends were attacked by some of these free-grazers. I'd like you to find out who did it."

"Where can I find your friends?" Jeremiah asked.

"The Followers are taking care of them up at the Mormon Fort."

* * *

Jeremiah and Cass trudged back out into the rain, boots slipping on the wet concrete. Evening advanced quickly. Walking through Freeside, Jeremiah glance around at the dilapidated buildings that littered the sidewalk. Cass still held her look of shock; Jeremiah decided that he would let one of the Followers' doctors know.

The Old Mormon Fort was probably one of the oldest, and historic, locations in the Mojave. Large, it stood near the north gate, and dominated most of the area. The structure was a four sided fort (obviously) with guard towers on each corner, and a massive courtyard in the center where the Followers of the Apocalypse had set camp.

Jeremiah did not know much about the Followers as an organization, other than the fact that their doctors seemed to know what they were doing. He had known some Followers in his time, and they seemed like a very charitable group.

As the large wooden doors of the fort lumbered open, the two were met by a sinister-looking ghoul with a cowboy hat on. She eyed them peculiarly, Cass in particular, and shrugged. Turning, he, she - it - walked away.

The courtyard was filled with tents, and various people in white coats milling about in the rain. One of them, a woman with purple spiked up hair_, _walked over to Jeremiah as the doors shut. _  
_

_It must have taken a lot of stuff to keep that hair spiked in the rain, _thought Jeremiah.

The woman stuck a hand out. "Hi, I'm Julie Farkas, head of the doctors here at the fort. What can I do for you?"

Jeremiah shook her hand and introduced himself. "I'm here on behalf of The King. He sent me to investigate some attacks that were made on some of his friends. Can you tell me anything about them?" She shook her head.

"Not much, other than the guys were pretty beat up. There's three of 'em. I'll let you talk to them. Follow me."

Jeremiah stopped her. "Actually, doc, I can find them myself. If you would, could you take a look at my friend?" He pointed to Cass, standing a few feet away.

Julie looked over, and back to Jeremiah. "What seems to be the problem?"

"We were recently involved in a, uh - an altercation with some local thugs. I think she is in shock."

"Okay. I'll check her out. You go talk to The King's friends." She pointed to a tent on the right wall.

Jeremiah nodded, and began walking towards the tent. As he entered, he saw an older man sitting in a chair, sadly looking at a younger man sleeping on a mattress on the ground. Another young man, black, was leaning against one of the tent's support poles.

The older man spoke when Jeremiah opened his mouth to speak. "What is it? Can't you see I want to be left alone with my friend here?" He said, shaking his head disdainfully.

"The King sent me to investigate your attacks," Jeremiah said, raising his hands in defense.

"Oh," the man said, "that's different, then. I'll do anything to get the bastards that did this. I'm Roy, how can I help?"

"What can you tell me about the attack?"

Roy sighed and massaged his temples. "Well, it happened at night, around eleven. We had made some caps off some old scrap we found, and wanted to invest it wisely. As we were leaving the Wrangler, we must've taken a wrong turn. We ended up in the _squatter_ side of town." He put emphasis on the word "squatter," mainly disgust. "From out of nowhere these big guys start barking questions at us. Wanted to know if we were locals."

Sighing again, he looked down at the figure on the mattress, and finally looked back up. "The kid there is about as proud as a local gets, and started yelling back at them. Then all hell broke loose. Kid got the worst of it, sad to say."

Jeremiah nodded. "Do you remember anything about your attackers?" Roy shook his head.

"No, other than that they were big, young too. Hell, none of them looked even half my age. No old geezers, that's for sure. I was mostly face down in the dirt, begging for my life when it happened, so I only got a quick glance at them." Jeremiah thought of Orris and his thugs, but shook the thought of. Cass entered his mind too, her eyes glazed and body rigid. He shivered.

"I must get going, I guess. Thanks for your help." Jeremiah said, turning to leave.

Roy spoke before he could. "Welcome. I hope you find these bastards. If you want, you could try talking to my friend Wayne over there. He saw more than I did." Jeremiah looked over at the black kid, leaning against the pole. Roy turned and talked to him.

"Wayne, it's okay. The King sent him."

The kid, Wayne, looked at Jeremiah. "That true? The King really send you?"

"He did, and anything you might be able to tell me could really help."

"They were better dressed than most Freesiders, that's for sure. You know, I think one of them might have called the other by name. We had just about had it when one of them said 'Hey, Lou, we gotta go'. At least that's what I think he said. He might've said something else, something with a T...Tenant! Yeah, he said 'Lou-Tenant!'"

Jeremiah sighed. "You mean lieutenant?" Wayne nodded quickly, embarrassed.

Lieutenant? Jeremiah thought that as strange. But, if the King was right, and NCR citizens were coming like droves, maybe the kid was right. Maybe some ex-military guys had come here looking to rough up some locals. Roy turned to say something, but Jeremiah was already out of the tent and in the rain.

It didn't take him long to find Boone, Bryan, and Julie Farkas, busy looking over Cass, who was asleep on the bottom part of a bunk bed. Another Follower stood behind her, a man with glasses and grey hair. The man was slightly shorter than Boone, around six feet. He was slim, and looked to be considerably young to have grey hair. Julie stood up when Jeremiah walked in.

"You were right," she said. "She is in shock. Also running a hint of fever. Being out in this weather certainly didn't help. I have some chems in her, should be better in the morning. But, you should not get in anymore 'altercations' from now on." Boone raised an eyebrow, and Bryan stifled a laugh, to which Jeremiah raised his middle finger when the good doctor had turned back to her patient.

"Boone, can you look into some of the local squatters for me? I need to go talk to The King," Jeremiah asked. Boone nodded, not bothering to ask why. Jeremiah turned back towards the courtyard, and Boone motioned for Bryan to accompany him. The three left the tent, and the fort, and parted once they reached the boulevard again.

* * *

They met again an hour later at the intersection of Fremont Street and Las Vegas Boulevard. Both Bryan and Boone look worn, and slightly agitated. Jeremiah wore the expression of a man rejuvenated.

Bryan scowled at him. Boone did the same, though Jeremiah noticed he always sported a scowl, his facial features clenched as if he was thinking on something which required his full attention.

"We found some local NCR missionaries," Boone began. "After some shit civilian test, they told us about some food bank on the west side, password is 'Hope.'"

Jeremiah nodded. "The King said that we should take care of whatever we find immediately, what time is it?"

Boone barely skipped a beat. "Eleven-thirty," he said, glancing down at a small watch on his wrist. Jeremiah exhaled, and looked around the intersection. Behind him lay the bus towards inner Freeside and Vegas; the road to the Mormon Fort and the north gate was in front, and two roads led off to the east and west. The road to the east Jeremiah knew would lead him to the "business" zone (named properly so for Mick and Ralph's Surplus and for the large amounts of drug dealers that inhabited the area). The road to the west led to places in Freeside Jeremiah had never been before.

Tiredly, he began to walk down the road heading west. Boone followed. Bryan sat leaning on his unhurt leg for a few moments, and finally hobbled after them.

The three walked for a few minutes in relative silence, save for Bryan's mutterings. Jeremiah tried listening to what he said, but soon tuned him out; he had come to the conclusion that Bryan had never been a mercenary "baptized in fire," the kid was too young to have seen any real action. What experience he did have came from his time traveling together with Jeremiah, in Primm and Boulder City, though Jeremiah knew he hadn't seen much in those places either.

In short, Jeremiah thought of him as "too damn green."

As the ruins of some forgotten building passed them, the group came in view of a large, rectangular building on the side of the road, the doors and windows of which were boarded up. On one side of the building was a wooden guard tower. Two figures could be seen inside at the top, looking out. Jeremiah urged his two friends on, towards a small, seemingly abandoned. The door that led inside had two guards on either side of it, one of whom asked for a password to gain entrance.

"Hope," Jeremiah said, approaching the door.

The guard, a smaller black man with a ten millimeter pistol on his waist, smiled and unlocked the door. The pistol struck Jeremiah as odd; would a "missionary" need one? He showed them inside.

The inside came as a major surprise; it was at capacity. People touched shoulders with one another, waiting their turn up at a counter. Behind the counter stood several NCR "missionaries," all armed. They were handing out various food items to the people, most of whom looked to be lowlife or people that were in the lower class.

Jeremiah shouldered his way to the counter, and demanded to know who was in charge.

"I am," an older woman said farther down the counter from him. "My name is Elizabeth Kieran. There is food and water here for any NCR civilian. Please, take some as you wish."

"Why do you just serve NCR citizens? Why not all the people of Freeside?" Jeremiah asked, making his way towards her.

"Well, we tried to have a partnership with the Kings, but our envoy returned badly beaten, so my boss told me to scrap the project. I couldn't just leave it, so I went ahead with fewer supplies. Because of the shortage, we could only feed NCR citizens."

"Oh," he replied. For some reason, he had been expecting some undercover business operating under The King's nose. This seemed harmless. "Well, thanks, I guess."

Kieran nodded, and returned to the line of people. Jeremiah quickly exited the building. As the three began to walk back towards town, they saw a lone King running in their direction. As he neared, Jeremiah realized it was the same guy that had hustled him when he asked to meet The King.

"You boys find out somethin'?" he said as he reached the group. Jeremiah nodded in the direction of the soup kitchen.

"Yeah, and it's harmless. They're giving out food. Apparently, you guy's turned away a partnership from them. Beat an envoy. Fault would be on you, in that situation." The man backed away, as if Jeremiah had insulted him.

"Listen here, boy," he said. Jeremiah realized they hadn't been properly introduced. "We never turned away nothin'! Their so-called 'envoy' was just a spy! We beat his sorry ass, for the good of Freeside. Them soldier boys can rot in hell, for all I care. You plan on speakin' to The King about this?"

Jeremiah nodded. "Look, uh..." he trailed off.

"Pacer," he said, irritated.

"Look, Pacer, I'm don't have time to play your stupid little games. I'm going to The King to set things straight. Run along now, and take your tough-guy bravado with you."

Jeremiah didn't want for a reply, instead he stomped off in the direction of the Kings' school. Boone and Bryan were quick to follow. Pacer ran towards the giant abandoned building.

Walking at a quick pace, the three walked back to the School of Impersonation. As they walked Jeremiah spoke to his friends. "Thoughts?"

Boone snorted. Bryan sped up and walked beside Jeremiah.

"Something doesn't feel right. I smell a conspiracy," he said. Jeremiah laughed.

"Bryan, how old are you?"

"Well, I'm nearly twenty," Bryan told him as he straightened and lengthened his stride.

"Geez," Jeremiah said. "About how many of these 'conspiracies' have you sniffed out?"

"You asked, and I told you what I thought. If you didn't want the answer, don't ask."

Boone voiced his opinion. "Lay off, both of you. I agree, something isn't right. Someone is hiding something. And I can say we're about to find out who is doing the hiding. That said, I can't have you two bitching at each other. We're a team, not a damn variety show."

Jeremiah sighed, and Bryan fell back, offended. The three walked in silence until they reached the School. The King was surprised when Jeremiah filled him in.

"Just a ol' soup kitchen?" he asked. Jeremiah nodded. He leaned back in his chair and passed a hand through his greased hair. "Well, there ain't nothin' wrong with that. Now if you'll excu -" The loud banging of a door interrupted him. A King ran through the door from the lobby, in the direction of The King's table.

"What the hell?" The King said, turning around. The other King, a small man with identical greased hair, made it to the table and caught his breath.

"King," he said. "We got trouble at the old train station."

"What happened, boy?" The King asked.

"Pacer and some of our guys are pinned up by the station by a few squatters. Two are already down. They need some help, fast," he finished.

The King turned to Jeremiah, Bryan, and Boone. "I know I've asked a lot of you, but I need you to help my boys. This is the last thing I'll ask of you."

"We're there, sir," Jeremiah said, taking his weapons out and checking them. Boone and Bryan did the same. Quickly, the three ran out of the School and back towards the west.

* * *

The situation by the train station was not going well for The Kings. When Jeremiah, Bryan, and Boone arrived, Pacer was inside a bus stop, pinned by gunfire from the guard tower near the station. Two dead Kings lay on the road near the bus stop.

"Nice of you boys to join us, but I don't need your help," Pacer said as they ran up and took cover in the bus stop.

"'Us?'" Jeremiah asked, angrily, "Looks to me like you're all that is left, but if you want we can leave just as quick as we got here." A bullet ricocheted off the metal of the stop, causing all inside to jump. Bryan cursed under his breath, and Boone sat back against the metal. Bullets flew everywhere.

Pacer sat crouched, staring at Jeremiah with a raised eyebrow. His normally greased hair fell around his face, and sweat caked his forehead. Finally, he nodded. "Alright, soldier boy. What's the plan?"

"I have no clue," Jeremiah told him. He turned to his companions. Bryan looked at him, with what Jeremiah thought was a hint of fear. Boone sat rigid, his complexion hard, brow furrowed.

"What exactly _is _the situation?" Jeremiah asked.

"NCR boys got us bent over from the guard tower. Didn't see how many people they have, but from the shots I'm guessing it's probably four or five," Pacer spat. Jeremiah peeked around the corner, and quickly returned after a bullet narrowly missed him.

"This was a bad idea," Bryan growled. He was leaning against the metal of the bus stop, rubbing where the spot where he was missing fingers. "Christ, why did I start running with you?"

"You could've backed out at anytime, I sure as hell aren't keeping you here," Jeremiah told him, frustrated.

Gunfire landed all around them. Dirt popped up where bullets landed, dents were being made in the bus stop.

"Fuck it," Jeremiah stood and took That Gun from his hip. With a yell, he dashed around the side of the bus stop and began firing at the guard tower. Boone followed suit, the boom of his rifle thundering and the flash from the muzzle lighting up the night sky. Pacer looked at Bryan, who sighed and ran around the other side, firing his repeater.

The three charged the tower, firing at the NCR missionaries. There were a total of five. As the Jeremiah, Boone, and Bryan charged, the squatters became disoriented. Two were quickly gunned down by the blaze issuing from That Gun. One was shot off the top by Bryan, nearly under the tower. Boone, barely fifteen feet from the bus stop, shot the last two, one of whom turned out to be Elizabeth Kieran.

As the smoke lifted, Jeremiah sighed. It hurt, killing NCR. Boone made that clear.

"We fought alongside people like this, Jeremiah," he said. "I won't be around long if this keeps up."

Jeremiah holstered That Gun. "Don't worry, I don't plan on it."

* * *

Back at the School, The King thanked the three for saving Pacer, and offered Jeremiah anything he asked for in return.

"I'll think on that, and I'll get back to you," he replied.

"Well, on behalf of me, and all of Freeside, thank you, thank you very much," The King told him, his drawl increased.

The two shook hands. On their next meeting, the circumstances would be much different, and one of the two would be near death.

* * *

An hour later at the Old Mormon Fort, Jeremiah sat next to the bed Cass lay asleep in. Boone and Bryan were fast asleep, though Boone was rather reluctant to be so. Jeremiah had insisted, and his friend complied, not feeling up for a heated confrontation. Dawn was getting closer, yet Jeremiah was wide awake. He had decided he would spend his time by Cass until she woke up.

As he sat, he studied her more. Sleeping, she was soft, the alcohol not being able to show itself. Her facial features were at ease, and her red hair fell down to her shoulders. The leather jacket she normally wore was draped around the foot of the bed, and one of the doctors had dressed her in a normal loose fitting white shirt, for comfort. Her breathing was gentle, and her overall state could have been described as peaceful. Jeremiah put his hand to her face, slowly stroking it. The fever was down, at least.

He stood, stretching towards the top of the tent. Turning, he walked to the flap and peered out at the sky, which was beginning to turn a dark grey. The rain had slacked, but it looked as if they were in for another day of it. Leaning against the tent, Jeremiah shook himself. He was close now. The Strip was maybe only a day or two away. His revenge was only a day or two away. Cass stirred behind him, but he didn't notice. When she spoke, he was startled.

"Hey," she said, weakly. Jeremiah turned and walked over to the bed. Cass tried sitting up, but Jeremiah put his hand out.

"No, no, stay there. You've been in shock for a few hours. I'm surprised you are back this fast. You seemed pretty shaken," Jeremiah told her.

She nodded. "Yeah. I saw you run past with that big guy in the metal armor, and I thought I'd follow you. When those guys started beating on you, I jumped in. Then the gun misfired, and you were on the ground, and..." her voice trailed off, and she buried her face in her hands.

"You saved me, Jeremiah. I don't know what he would have done to me - I don't want to know." Jeremiah sat down on the bed and put his arms around her. She leaned against his shoulder.

"Don't worry about that, now, you're safe," he reassured her.

She looked up at him. "I know, but I've never come that close to death - or whatever - before. I was so scared..." she was crying now. "After my caravan got destroyed, I've been falling into a dark hole. In alcohol, in sex, whatever. It hasn't been good. Now, I thought I could finally get away and actually do something. I hesitated yesterday. That could have been the end of me!" Jeremiah squeezed her tight.

"Look, I've been meaning to ask..." she looked at him. Her eyes were red already from the tears that streaked her face. Jeremiah nodded for her to continue. "Can we go and see where my caravan got hit? I think it would help, you know, for closure."

"Of course," Jeremiah said. She smiled, and he wiped a tear that had been rolling down her face.

They sat together, on the bed, for a few more minutes. Finally, Jeremiah realized she was asleep, and he gently laid her back on the bed. Sighing, he stood and found the tent Boone and Bryan were asleep in. Collapsing onto a bed, his last thoughts were of Cass, Benny, and Vegas.

Outside the tent, the rain began to fall again.


	10. A House is Not a Home

**A/N: I apologize for my long absence. I had a debate tournament Saturday, and all throughout the weekend I was engrossed in the latest adventure of Jack Reacher. I was forced to rewrite this chapter about three times due to a lack of me liking it. So if it is not my finest work, please bear with me and let me know with a review! Thanks!**

* * *

**Southeast of Vegas**

The rain fell sideways across the Mojave, yet Jeremiah and Cass walked on.

They were a touch southeast of Camp McCarran, where Highway 93 and Interstate 15 merged. Near the merge was the wreckage of Cass' caravan. Jeremiah had decided Vegas and Benny could wait. After all, he owed her one for saving his ass with Orris.

The two had walked in relative peace. Only a few critters jumped at them, and had been quickly put down at the swift speed of their guns. Cass figured it was the weather holding varmints at bay; she was probably right.

The weather itself was unreal. Not once in his life had Jeremiah seen weather be consistent as it was. Cass figured it was the whole turning to its old ways; Jeremiah thought of it as a sign of things to come.

"Up ahead there," Cass announced, pointing off into the grey rain. Jeremiah squinted, trying to see through the wall of rain and insurmountable fog. Suddenly, large shapes came into view, and he realized this was it: the destruction of Cass' birthright.

It certainly was not much of a sight. Dead brahmin were on their side, crates and boxes were strewn across the concrete. The two walked amongst the debris, picking around. Cass appeared shaken, and Jeremiah knew she had every right to be.

"No bodies, no marks, though they could've been swept away in the rain," she sighed. Jeremiah was following her peruse the wreckage with his eye. He had finished his sweep. "They didn't even take the damn cargo. Who robs a caravan but doesn't loot it? Who are we dealing with?" Jeremiah shrugged when she looked back at him.

"At least you can rule robbery out. Would anybody want to stage a hit on you? Any competitors?" he asked.

"No," she sat down. "None that I can think of..." Walking over to a crate, she sat down and put her face in her hands. Jeremiah walked over to her. He put a hand on her shoulder.

"There isn't anything else for you here, Cass," he said. She looked up at him. Through the rain Jeremiah couldn't tell if she had been crying or if it was the rain running down her face.

"Exactly!" She choked out.

_She was - is - crying after all, _Jeremiah thought.

"There isn't anything! No caravan, no life, no clues, and _no fucking answers_!" Cass yelled. Jeremiah sat on the crate next to her and put an arm around her. She leaned into his shoulder and began to sob. Her rattling cries shook Jeremiah, and he held her close.

They stayed like this for minutes on end, before Cass stood. She turned to Jeremiah.

"The Crimson Caravan and the Van Graff family," she said. He raised an eyebrow.

"They've always been my main competition." Jeremiah nodded. Cass sat back on the crate next to him.

"Do you think they would call a hit on you?" He asked.

She shrugged. "Maybe. McClafferty was always stingy, and the Van Graffs are a bunch of bitches," she sighed. Jeremiah chuckled slightly. Finally he rose and stretched, the cold rain causing his muscles to seize. Cass stood as well, and walked over to him. To his surprise, she wrapped him in a hug when she reached his side.

Taken aback, Jeremiah kept his hands in the air. She looked up at him.

"Well, aren't you going to hug me back?" She asked. Jeremiah laughed, and put his arms around her. They embraced for several minutes, standing in the rain. Neither said a word.

Suddenly, Cass spoke. Her voice sounded urgent. "Jeremiah," she said, "there is someone standing behind you." Jeremiah turned around. Ten yards away, looking at them through the rain, was someone.

Everything about the person screamed "shady." They were wearing a black leather overcoat that nearly touched the ground. A fedora sheltered their face from the rain. When Jeremiah turned, it spoke. It was a man's voice. The voice called out in a rough, questioning manner.

"Jeremiah Winters?" The man asked.

Jeremiah faced him, and his hand found Lucky. "Who's asking?"

The figure began to walk forward, slowly. The overcoat flaapped with every step. It stopped when it was five feet away. Jeremiah guessed the man was close to six feet tall. He couldn't tell if there was a gun under the overcoat.

"You've been causing quite a stir, Mr. Winters," the man said. "My organizatioin has noticed."

"Who are you?" Jeremiah asked, agitated.

"You will find out, in due time. Never fear, we are on your side." The man held out his hand, in it was a small leather case. "Take this, and don't think to ask questions or give chase to me. Remember, we are watching," Jeremiah took the leather case, and the figure turned and walked back into the rain.

Cass walked in front of Jeremiah, and looked at him and the case. Jeremiah had his eyes on the case. It was thin and rectangular in shape.

"What do you think it is?" Cass asked.

"I have no idea, but I'm not waiting to find out," Jeremiah replied. Hesitantly, he untied the binding and opened the case. Inside was five hundred NCR dollars, and a folded white slip of paper. Taking out the paper, he unfolded it and looked at what it contained.

"It's a coin," he told her.

"Whaddya mean, a coin?" she asked, perplexed.

Jeremiah handed it to her. She flipped it in and out of her fingers. On one side looked to be a seal, one Jeremiah had seen before on relics from the Old World. The other side had a similar seal on it. This one had an eagle's head sticking out above what appeared to be a white shield. The shield had a star on it. The seal was outlined with a phrase Jeremiah had heard many times before:

"_And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free." _Cass raised an eyebrow at Jeremiah, who was busy looking off in the direction the strange man had left in. He appeared to be the epitome of confusion.

She laughed before tossing the coin to him. Catching it, he twirled it in his fingers. A few minutes passed by as they stood together in the rain, thinking of the man in the black overcoat. Finally, Jeremiah pocketed the coin and began walking towards Freeside.

* * *

**Freeside**

"Hey, kid. What can The King do for you today?" The big man asked as Jeremiah, accompanied by Boone, Bryan, and Cass, entered the theater.

Jeremiah shook his hand. "Yeah, King, I'm hear to discuss the favor you owe me."

The King leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin. "Oh, really now?" Jeremiah nodded. "And what might that be?"

"I want a way in to Vegas," Jeremiah told him. The King sighed, and motioned for another King standing nearby.

Jeremiah stood, looking at him. The relationship between the two had gradually progressed over the time of two weeks, much to Jeremiah's pleasure.

The King whispered something to his subordinate, and the younger King ran off. The King turned back to Jeremiah and straightened his jacket. "Very well. It's done. My man is going to get you all some passports, and you should be on your way." He then rose, and turned walked towards a door next to the stage. Jeremiah watched him go. Boone approached.

"Were you expecting something else?" he asked.

Jeremiah faced him. "I'm not sure what I was expecting..."

* * *

**The Strip**

Vegas turned out to be more than any of them were expecting. Well, all except Boone, and that was because he had been there before. The four walked through the gate from Freeside and entered The Stirp as if in a daze. All except Boone. Still on alert, he scanned the crowds of people walking back and forth between the casinos. As they walked, he became a fountain of information; giving information on the casinos and the families that ran them. Jeremiah kept his focus towards The Tops, where no doubt Benny could be found.

"That's where we're headed," he told his friends, nodding towards the casino. The Tops was nothing special, especially in the dismal grey rain. It sat, more or less squatted, on the side of Vegas. A brown building, almost fifteen stories, the outline of the entire structure was covered with neon lights. A sign next to it advertised the entertainment in the Aces theater.

Jeremiah pulled his jacket closer and kept his eyes toward The Tops. Towards Benny.

Suddenly, the sound of a wheel on gravel met their ears. The four turned, and the sight of a Securitron rolling into view entered their gaze. The screen on the robot was that of a smiling cowboy. Victor.

Jeremiah groaned.

"Howdy, partner!" Victor said in his too-cheery cowboy tone. "Good to see you again!"

"Uh, likewise, pal," Jeremiah sighed. He came to a conclusion that Victor was not a coincidence. His theory was confirmed.

"Now, I know you are feelin' the need for some revenge, but remember, it is a dish best served cold!" Victor said, before pointing to the Lucky 38 casino. The Lucky 38 was the casino from where Mr. House, the overseer of Vegas, ruled and reigned. No one had entered the casino in over two hundred years. The roulette-wheel shaped casino towered above The Strip, and could be seen from anywhere in the Mojave. At night, its lights, along with the collective lights of Vegas, lit up the wasteland sky like wildfire. "Before you trudge on over to deal with fancy-pants, Mr. House himself has requested your presence in the penthouse of the Luck 38! And if I were you, little doggie, I wouldn't keep him waiting," the robot finished, and Jeremiah gaped at him.

"Victor, I have bigger fish to fry right now, but you can let Mr. House know I'll pay him a visit as soon as I'm done at The Tops,"

"Woah now, partner, I don't think that's a good idea," Victor informed him. "The boss doesn't take kindly to being ignored. You better head on over; you can worry about fancy pants later,"

Jeremiah ran a hand through his thick brown hair and wiped the rain that had been making its way down his forehead. Sighing, he nodded and signaled to his team. Victor waved goodbye and wheeled off to open the door to the Lucky 38.

Inside, the casino was nothing more than an old, dusty casino. In the center of the casino floor was an elevator, standing by which was another Securitron. A bar, surprisingly lit up, lay on top of the bank. Jeremiah pointed, and the three others moved in that direction while he moved towards the elevator. Victor raced past and opened the door for him.

"You'll meet with him in his penthouse. I'm going to have to ask your friends to stay here, though," Victor told him as the elevator pinged.

Jeremiah looked towards the bar, and saw Cass open a bottle of whiskey. He smield. "I don't think you have to worry about them," he said.

The elevator doors closed, and began to rise. He grimaced.

_This is some shitty music,_ he thought as the elevator rose. Next he made sure both Lucky and That Gun were loaded, just in case something goes wrong. Mr. House could have a short temper. The elevator binged, and the doors opened.

A Securitron stood in front, but this one had the face of a woman. Dark hair and a nice face, it slowly rolled toward him.

"Welcome to the penthouse, darlin'," it said. "I'm Jane, one of Mr. House's girls."

Jeremiah looked at the robot, puzzled. The figure of House kept getting stranger. Needless to say, he tried to sound cheerful when he spoke. "Yes, I think Mr. House wanted to see me?" he asked.

Jane swiveled and pointed to some stairs that led down from the upper landing of the penthouse. "Right this way, sugar," she swooned.

Jeremiah walked down the steps, and turned around when another Securitron, this one with the face of a police officer, pointed him to a doorway by the stairs. The doorway was covered with a grey cloth, and Jeremiah pushed it out of his way as he entered.

To his right, he finally laid eyes on Mr. Robert House.

It was not what he had been expecting. In fact, House was nothing close to what Jeremiah had been expecting him to be. There was no man in a business suit and tie. All there turned out to be was a computer monitor, and a single picture.

"Ah, yes, Mr. Winters," a voice said, coming from the direction of the computer. "I've been expecting you." The voice was calm yet assertive, and spoke with a clean and intelligent tone. Almost inviting.

Jeremiah inched toward the screen. The picture was that of a man, maybe in his fourties. He had dark hair swept off to one side of his head, and a large moustache lay on top of his upper lip. This was Robert House.

"This meeting has been a long time coming. You've come a long ways, literally, and, I suspect figuratively as well," House said. "But now that you are here, I must ask, what do you make of what you see?"

Jeremiah stared, gaping, at the screen. Finally, he laughed.

"A city built for vice and sin - what's not to love?" he quipped.

House was taken aback. "Oh, come now, don't play the fool - Vegas has fools enough. A superfluity of them. They're what makes it so..._profitable._They come to Vegas chasing penny-ante dreams of high-living, to feel like they are big shots, like they're winners. Of course, you see that you and I are of a different stripe, don't you? We don't have to think that we are important. We are."

"Why all the VIP treatment?" Jeremiah asked, puzzled by House's attitude toward him. "I'm just a courier."

"Oh, don't be coy," the image on the screen scoffed. "You've been playing a high-stakes game ever since Victor dug you out of the ground. Don't be afraid to admit it."

"Let's get down to business, then," Jeremiah replied slyly.

"The business is thsi: one of my employees has stolen an item of extraordinary value from me, and I want it recovered. Simple enough?"

This time, Jeremiah scoffed. "What are you proposing?"

"My only concern is the recovery of the Platinum Chip. What happens to Benny, I leave to your discretion."

Jeremiah smirked.

"When you deliver the Chip to me, I will pay you four times the amount stipulated in your contract. How's that for 'business'?"

Rocking on his heels, the courier though on the proposal. Four times the amount stipulated would put the payout at one thousand caps. But what other kinds of social contracts would be proposed after?

"I'd like to know a few things first," Jeremiah told the computer.

"Ask away, then,"

"What is the Platinum Chip?"

"It is a very special item," the image retorted harshly. "There is nothing else like it in the world. It was lost a long time, and very difficult to 's all you need to know about it, for this stage of our enterprise. Fulfill your contract, deliver the Chip, and good things will come your way."

Jeremiah nodded, and began to pace in front of the computer. "Tell me more about Benny."

"Benny is the head of the Chairmen, the group that runs The Tops casino. He was my second-in-command around here, but I guess he had other ideas."

"And what happens if I refuse to help you?" Jeremiah knew he had to take a chance.

House sighed. "Mr. Winters, what I can give to you is not comparable to anything else in the world. I am giving you a chance to bring peace and order to the Mojave. You want money? You can have it. Tons of it. You want fame? You can have it. Your name in the spotlights, everywhere. Do this for me, and you won't have to worry about anything for the remainder of your days."

Jeremiah smiled. "All I have to do is get you a poker chip?"

"Yes, well, that and a few other things that must be taken care of. But yes, recovery of the Platinum Chip is essential to the master plan."

"Well then I'll start with that. I will not guarantee my full assistance in your 'master plan,' however."

"So be it, Mr. Winters," House said. The image wavered for a half second, and remained solitary.

"I will talk to you soon, Mr. House," Jeremiah said as he turned for the door. Behind him, the screen shut off.

As the elevator doors shut, and the lift began to descend, Jeremiah's mind focused on one thing: the man in the checkered coat, Benny. When the elevator binged and he stepped off to be greeted by Boone, Cass, and Bryan, he was smiling like a maniac.

"Gear up. We're about to pay an old friend a visit."


	11. Ring-a-Ding-Ding!

**Vegas**

Bryan, Boone, and Cass stood under the awning of The Tops casino, watching Jeremiah. He stood in front of one of the glass doors, looking inside. The four were armed and ready; waiting for Jeremiah to come tell them the plan.

After exiting the elevator, Jeremiah had given the three a quick explanation of his conversation with House. The three were amazed. Even Boone, though he didn't show it. Was Jeremiah that lucky? Or did House just need an errand boy? Even Jeremiah did not fully understand the situation, and was not sure the route he needed to take.

The evening sun cast a glare off the glass doors leading into the casino, and Jeremiah appeared frustrated when he returned to his friends.

"Well," he began. "I can see two guys behind a reception counter, and another two standing off to the side. All most likely packing," Cass whistled, and Bryan shuffled his feet.

"So, what is the plan?" Bryan asked.

"I don't have a plan. I'm sort of making it up as I go along," Jeremiah replied. Boone snorted. Bryan looked down, obviously a bit anxious. Jeremiah wondered if he had ever been in something as serious as he was about to be involved in. "You can back out if you want. I'm not about to ask you to take a bullet for me," he told them ominously. Boone gave a slight shake of the head, still holding his gaze. Bryan kicked a rock, a sent it bouncing up the sidewalk. He too shook his head.

Cass playfully punched Jeremiah in the shoulder. "I've been around you too long to turn tail now," she said. "Besides, I'm rarin' for a fight!" Grinning, she took a full bottle of whiskey from her pack, and brought it to her mouth. Jeremiah noticed her hand was shaking when she raised the bottle.

The sun was nearly below the horizon, and it cast orange beams into the Mojave sky. The beams would soon be replaced by the neon lights of The Strip, though no one would notice. Soon, the talk would be of the gunfight at The Tops. Turning to Boone, Jeremiah offered his hand.

"Craig, it looks as if we're about to be in it again," he said. Boone nodded, shaking his hand.

"Yeah," he grunted. For a few seconds, Jeremiah stared at his friend. Boone, on the other hand, kept his gaze focused on the doors of The Tops. After a few seconds, he turned and met Jeremiah's look. "What?"

"No, uh, cryptic messages or otherwise informative speeches?"

"No."

Jeremiah gave a slight exasperated sigh, barely audible to anyone but himself. He turned back to The Tops and brushed his brown hair to the side. He scratched his beard, already back since his shave a few days ago in Novac. Then, he pulled his

Turning, the four faced the casino. They each checked and re-checked their weapons, and Jeremiah pushed the doors open.

The Tops was the hit of Vegas. Great entertainment could be viewed each night at the Aces Theater; the bar was always stocked and tasted great; the gambling was not shabby, either. Unlike the Ultra-Luxe with its luxury and food, or Gomorrah with its sex, The Tops had no real signature. It was a place for people to go and have fun.

Immediately the reception counter came into their view when the door was opened. Two men, both in white suits with black ties, stood behind it. Both had slicked-back hair and, as it would soon turn out, both were the reception counter stood a large section of wall that separated the reception area from the casino. Walls to the right and left of the entrance had guards, both in the same white suit, and both with the slicked-back hair. Jeremiah nodded to Bryan and Cass, who both moved to them. Boone knew it was implied that he would hang back, for ranged shots and reconaissance.

Jeremiah walked up to the reception desk, directly across from one of the Chairmen on the other side. He read his name tag: Swank.

"Hey, hey!" he said as Jeremiah reached the counter. "Welcome to The Tops! I'll need to ask for you to hand over all your weapons at the counter before you can go into the casino, you dig?"

Jeremiah didn't bother replying, instead grabbing That Gun and Lucky from their holsters and pointing one at each Chairmen behind the counter. He heard Bryan and Cass wield their weapons on either side of him, and behind heard Boone raise the rifle.

"Woah, woah! Take it easy, baby!" Swank said, raising his hands. "That ain't a good idea, kid. Every one of us in this joint is carrying something big, got it? You cap us, you got the rest of the casino to deal with,"

Jeremiah ignored him. "Listen up!" he yelled. "My name is Jeremiah Winters, and I'm a courier with the Mojave Express. Your boss, Benny, attacked me and stole a package I was delivering, and he thought he could leave me with a bullet in the head. Obviously, it didn't work. Now, I want to talk to Benny, and any son of a bitch who wants to leave this casino alive better let me. Understand?"

Swank backed up a bit, and swallowed hard. "Tough luck, pal. First off, I know my pal Benny. We've been together ever since the Chairmen were the Boot Riders. He doesn't roll that way. So why don't you put your guns down so my men don't have to shed any blood?" The man was inching away from the counter, most likely preparing to reach for the gun that lay on the inside of his jacket pocket.

He never got the chance.

Jeremiah pulled Lucky's trigger, sending a bullet into the Chairmen on the right's chest. The man fell, still kicking, to the ground. Jeremiah quickly holstered Lucky and reached across the counter to Swank, who was reaching into his jacket. Grabbing his collar, Jeremiah pulled him across the counter and threw him to the ground. To his left, Bryan pistol-whipped his guard, sending him flat against the wall. Cass did the same, and finished her's off with a round from her shotgun. Boone closed the gap from the door to the counter in two strides, covering the area behind the reception counter.

On the floor, Swank struggled to stand. Jeremiah pulled him up and sent him sprawling back to the ground with a swift headbutt. All across the casino, the sounds of silence could be heard. Swank was unconscious when Jeremiah released him. The Chairmen on the opposite side of the counter had bled out and died much like his companion Cass had taken care of. Boone stood by Jeremiah.

"It just got unnaturally quiet," he remarked. Jeremiah agreed. Normally the people inside would have gone crazy, screaming, crying, running for the exits. Maybe they were all puzzled by the gunshot and the noises of the scuffle. Dazed.

Suddenly, a group of five men darted out from the staircase leading to the casino floor's balcony. Seeing the group at the door, they raised their weapons and fired. Suppressed gunfire landed around the entrance. Jeremiah threw Boone on the floor against the counter, and crouched next to him. Cass and Bryan dove behind likewise. All at once, screams of terror filled the casino, as gambles alike realized what was going on. The sound of hurried and crazed footsteps entered the ears of everyone inside.

Bryan was yelling. Cursing, actually. "Shit, shit, _shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT, SHIT!" _His words drifted across to Jeremiah, who glanced at him. Bryan was leaning with his back against the counter, trying to make himself as invisible as possible. Cass ever so often would try to glance over the counter, even taking potshots at the attacking Chairmen. Boone was the epitome of cool, calm, and collected. Jeremiah tried to remain the same, though it was hard.

"Got any plans, yet?" Bryan shouted at Jeremiah. He glanced again, and then chanced a peek over the counter. The Chairmen were pressing their position from the balcony. Two were making their way down a staircase behind the partition behind the reception desk. Jeremiah turned to Boone, looking at him for orders, and waved with his hand. Boone looked over, and nodded. Jeremiah gave another hand gesture, signaling for him to follow.

Cass and Bryan watched as the two rolled over the counter and landed on the other side. Jeremiah landed in the puddle of blood that had collected under the dead Chairman. Bullets began hitting the partition, some breaking through. Jeremiah gave Boone another hand signal, and the two crept to opposite sides of the partition. At once, they rounded the corner. The boom of the hunting rifle echoed throughout, overpowering the sharp crack of Jeremiah's pistols. The two Chairmen on the staircase fell, one on top of the other. Gamblers and other customers ran around, some entering the crossfire, causing Jeremiah and Boone to cease firing. The three Chairmen on the balcony didn't let up, firing their automatic .22s. Shots landed all around, some hitting the evacuating citizens. They fell, screaming and trying to crawl towards the door.

Jeremiah and Boone reached the staircase and used their safety to catch their breath. A few moments of silence ensued as the Chairmen reloaded and waiting for their targets to emerge from cover. Jeremiah heard the three conversing in mumbles. Bryan and Cass darted from the reception area and fired their weapons at the Chairmen. They shouted in surprise and one fell, slumped over. Jeremiah looked at Boone, who nodded, and they ran up the stairs. At the top, Boone raised his rifle and downed a Chairman busy looking over his downed companion. The other turned and charged, and Jeremiah threw an elbow at the man's nose. He fell, and received a foot in his ribs. Jeremiah raised his foot and slammed his heel into his nose, knocking him out. Behind him, Boone grunted.

Jeremiah turned and held out his hands. "What?" he asked. Boone didn't reply, only chuckle.

Suddenly, more Chairmen jumped out from the far end of the casino floor. Four of them this time, though they surrounded a center figure; one that had slicked-back black hair, and wore a checkered suit.

Benny. Jeremiah sneered.

"What in the goddamn?" Benny said, laughing. He started clapping, and moving through the gallery of gambling games. "Baby, it is _great _to see you!"

"Turns out I was more than a courier shot in the head and left for dead, you filthy bastard!" Jeremiah yelled. The Chairmen surrounding Benny had their weapons raised, as did Jeremiah and his group. Benny, however, remained cheerful. He laughed again, a laugh that was loud and cocky. Any people left in the casino cowered in corners or huddled behind roulette tables.

Benny raised his hands questioningly. "You got a crazy drop on me, kid, but you don't want to kill me. No, see, we should be working together,"

"Hand over the chip, and maybe you'll live," Jeremiah spat.

"Can't do that, the Chip is special. But savor this, baby..." he trailed off. Jeremiah stood still, surrounded by his friends. They readied themselves for the bullets that were sure to come.

"I can comp you the Presidential," Benny continued, "best suite in the house! After what you've been through, you deserve a taste of the VIP lifestyle!"

Jeremiah smiled. "Sorry, House beat you to it." Benny appeared surprised at this. He faltered.

"I'll clue you in - guaranteed - every question answered. This can be the start of a wonderful friendship," This time, Jeremiah laughed.

"No deal, time to die," he said. Benny shrugged.

"It was worth a try. Kill them all," he signaled to his guards, and they opened fire. The four dove behind a table on the balcony, flipping it over. As soon as it was on its side the bullets began to slam into it. Most didn't stop at the table, instead plowing right through. Jeremiah heard Bryan shout over the din.

"We can't stay here!" He agreed.

Jeremiah and Bryan stood and threw the table over the railing. It fell near the four Chairmen; Benny was nowhere to be seen. A staircase was behind them. The current tactical situation was in favor of the Chairmen.

The bank was in a corner, next to the doors leading into the Aces Theater. Jeremiah pointed, and the three other made their way over, following him through the hail of bullets. They reached the theater, and Jeremiah lined up the plan, which he finally thought of.

* * *

Benny was in the elevator, on his way to the top floor, the thirteenth, where his suite was. The High Roller suite was the best it got at The Tops, well, next to the Presidential, at least. On his way up, he pulled out his nickel-plated nine millimeter, the pistol he named Maria. Making sure it was loaded, he rubbed some fingerprints from the barrel and put it in his jacket pocket. The courier was nothing to worry about. After all, he had shot him in the head once, he could do it again.

The elevator opened to the thirteenth floor, and Benny got out. Turning right down the hallway, he walked until he came to the room with the double doors. Once inside, he pushed the button for the intercom.

"Yes, Mr. Chairman?" a voice said.

"Yeah, listen baby, that fink still givin' you stuff down there?" Benny said into it.

"Yeah, boss man. Guy and his friend are tough as nails. Looks like they're going into the Aces. Oh, yeah, they're clearin' the place out," the guy, who was The Tops' head of security, replied.

"Groovy. Could you send a few guys up to my suite? Two or three should be good, man."

"Sure thing, boss, they'll be right up,"

Benny smiled as he poured himself a glass of scotch.

"Ring-a-ding-ding,"

* * *

Back on the casino floor, Jeremiah was crouched in the bank. He had persuaded the cashier to open the door (after a whole lot of OPEN THE DOOR OPEN THE DOOR OPEN THE DOOR and HANDS IN THE AIR HANDS IN THE AIR) and she had run out. The bank gave him a clear view of both staircases, and the only entrance into the Aces. He had sent Boone into the theater with Cass and Bryan, hoping to make a distraction. It wouldn't be long before the Chairmen figured out where they were, and pursued them. For now, he would wait.

It took five minutes.

After having heard nothing for that time, seven Chairmen ran past, and opened the doors into the Aces. Jeremiah smiled. As soon as the door closed, he made his way back downstairs and around to the elevator. When he turned the corner to go back under the stairs down the left casino floor hallway, he came face to face with a Chairman. The man was big, probably around 6'8" and weighing in at close to two hundred and seventy-five pounds. He was wearing the same white suit, same black tie, and the same fedora. His silenced .22 was pointing right at Jeremiah's nose.

Jeremiah gulped. The big man smiled, and surprisingly, threw down his rifle.

The man got into a boxing stance and began to bounce on his feet, a strange sight for a man so large. Jeremiah grinned. If he had learned only two things in the army, there were how to shoot straight and how to hit hard. He had been in enough fights to know that size didn't matter; if you hit first, hit hard, and hit fast, nothing in the world could stop you. Nothing human, that is.

Jeremiah held his arms out, but retained his balance. He stood, waiting. The big guy grinned his grin, and kept bouncing.

After a few seconds, Jeremiah smiled back. The guy made his move.

He swung down, hard, with his right fist. He used the arm mostly, instead of the shoulder, in a straight down cut. Jeremiah sidestepped to the right, twisted and grabbed the man's right arm with his own right arm. Using momentum, Jeremiah swung into a one hundred eighty degree turn, bringing the left elbow up and smacking the man in the forehead. He stumbled, but remained on his feet.

Regaining his composure, the man shuffled his feet. His next move was a quick one-two combo. His left hand shot out in a jab leading the right in a hook. Jeremiah moved away from the jab and squatted to avoid the hook. While in a crouch, Jeremiah threw a jab of his own. He connected with the solar plexus - hard. The big guy crumpled, but on his way to the ground Jeremiah brought his foot up into the man's face; he heard the grunt's nose pop.

The big guy shot straight up after the vicious kick, and was teetering off balance. Blood, nearly gushing from his newly-broken nose, was making its way onto the white suit. He backed into the railling leading down into the gambling galley, and Jeremiah kicked him hard in the chest, sending him over it.

Jeremiah dusted his hands off, picked up the guy's .22, and proceeded to the elevators.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the Aces theater, the seven Chairmen sent to annihilate the intruders were having a bit of trouble. Everyone in the theater was gone, save for the seven. Apparently everyone had cleared out a back door on the stage when they heard the gunshots. Now, the seven guards were dumbfounded.

That was until a fiery redhead jumped up from behind the bar and shouted, "Hey, assholes!" and raised a shotgun. She was followed by a man in a red beret with a hunting rifle.

Jeremiah's plan had been successful. Lure the main guards into the theater left him a clear shot at Benny and the Chip.

Two Chairmen immediately fell. The others toppled tables and took cover from the barrage of gunfire.

"Keep them suppressed!" Boone shouted to Cass and Bryan over the crossfire. Bullets slammed into the drink cabinets above them, shattering the assortment of drinks and causing glass and alcohol to fly everywhere. Splinters from the wooden bar were flying as well. It was obvious the Chairmen had forgotten what they had learned from their days as the Boot Riders. They were terrible shots. One by one, they were picked off.

Boone barely crouched below the bar when the last two remained. They were hiding behind two tables. Carefully, he walked around the bar, broken glass crunching from under his boots. He kept his eye on the tables, as did Cass and Bryan.

One of the two stood up fast, and aimed at Boone, who jumped forward in a roll. The man failed to readjust in time, and was run through by Boone, who thrust his blade into the man's stomach and twisted it. The other, seeing his friend impaled, raised to fire his weapon.

Bryan was there, however, and put two bullets in the man's neck with his repeater.

The three stood in the Aces Theater. panting from the excitement. Boone wiped his machete on his sleeve, and Cass looked for a bottle of whiskey in the bar. Bryan looked at the dead Chairmen, and wiped sweat from his brow.

"Well," he said, "now it's all up to Jeremiah."

* * *

The elevator was damn slow.

Jeremiah stepped off at the same time Boone stepped around the bar. He was on the thirteenth floor, where he guessed Benny's suite would be. Cautiously, he peered down the hallway. Two guards were patrolling at the end, and one stood about three quarters of the way down, guarding a room with double doors on the left.

Jeremiah stepped out of the doorway leading to the elevators and quietly stepped into a doorway across the way. Carefully, he made his way down the hall, calculating the guard's routes at the end of the hall.

When he was two doors down from the lone guard, he looked around for a distraction. A potted plant lay nearby, and he picked up a rock out of the basket it sat in. Aiming towards the doorway across the hall and a few steps from him, he threw it.

The guard jerked towards the door, and Jeremiah sunk into the doorway. Pulling his weapon, the guard crept towards the door and opened it. He walked into the room. Jeremiah pulled his knife, the K-Bar all NCR soldiers are given, and waited for the right moment. When both guards at the end of the hall had turned, he took two steps, with big strides, and made it into the room.

The guard was already in the center of the room, looking around. At the last possible second he turned around and watched as Jeremiah plunged the knife into his throat. The man jerked, twitched, blood gurgled from his mouth, and he lay still. Jeremiah pulled the knife out and wiped it on the man's white suit. The Chairman fell to the thick carpet with a dull thud. Jeremiah exited the room. The two guards noticed him and raised their weapons, but Jeremiah was quicker. The silenced .22 put them down easily.

He arrived at Benny's suite. He took a deep breath, and opened the doors.

Benny barely looked up from the bar in the sitting room.

"Hey, baby," he said over a bottle of scotch. "Take a seat, I'll pour you a glass."

Jeremiah stood in the open doorway, speechless. No insults? No vain attempts at putting a bullet in his head?

"I think you need to work on your marksmanship," Jeremiah sneered as Benny poured him a glass. He took a seat at the bar.

"I hit what I was aimin' for, kid," Benny said, handing his guest a drink and retaking his stool at the bar. "Maybe you just had brains to spare. Or are you just thick-skulled?" They sat staring at each other a drinking. The scotch was clean, like whiskey but without the burn. "Anyway, maybe I can sleep better at night, knowing you didn't die. You know, now that we have some private time, might I ask how you're still living?"

Jeremiah chuckled.

"Let's say it was luck and leave it at that," he told the man in the checkered coat. Jeremiah was surprised at himself; here he was with the man who he swore to get revenge on, and they were sharing a drink together!

"Luck is for losers, baby. Someone pulled strings." Jeremiah shrugged. "Once you were vertical, how'd you track me down?"

"I'm persistent, that's all,"

Benny nodded, and took another drink. "I guess that's enough scratching around at first base. So tell me, which way is the wind gonna blow?"

"You have about five minutes before I kill you," Jeremiah told him bluntly.

Benny blinked and choked a bit on his scotch.

Suddenly, though, he was holding a gun in Jeremiah's face. The same nickel-plated pistol from the graveyard in Goodsprings.

"No, baby, I believe it will turn out to be the other way 'round," Benny retorted.

Jeremiah thought about the current situation. Odds were slim that he could survive another gunshot wound to the head. He wouldn't have time to pull That Gun or Lucky, which really only left two options; one of which would end in death. Not savory.

Benny was by no means a big man. He was a bit shorter than Jeremiah, and looked to be about two hundred pounds. His only advantage was the nine millimeter. Jeremiah would have to be fast. He looked down at the glass of scotch, which was half full.

"So, long, pal," Benny said. Jeremiah saw his finger tighten on the trigger.

Jeremiah swatted the gun to the side with his left hand. The pistol discharged as his hand connected with it. Using his free hand, he threw the glass of scotch at Benny. It connected with his right cheek, and shattered. Benny staggered and tripped over the couch.

In an instant, Jeremiah was upon him. He leaped the couch and landed with his elbow down on Benny's stomach, knocking the breath out of him. Jeremiah straddled him, and his fists were flying at Benny. He landed two, right into where shards of broken glass were sticking from his cheek. Benny blocked the third, and twisted. Jeremiah was shoved away, and Benny quickly stood up. Jeremiah stood and pulled Lucky, only to have Benny land a left hook. Jeremiah fell and Lucky flew back behind the bar.

Jeremiah stood, facing down his opponent. Benny eyed his pistol, which lay near the couch. Seeing it, That Gun flew from its holster and was leveled with Benny. Jeremiah shook his head.

"No. We finish this like men," he said, and then threw That Gun back behind the bar much like Lucky had. Benny smiled and pulled a switchblade from his pocket. Jeremiah pulled his combat knife. The two stared down each other, standing only three feet apart.

_Hit first, hit fast, and hit hard._

Another rule came to mind: _they never suspect a kick. Or a headbutt. _

Jeremiah charged, leading with his left fist. He threw an uppercut, aimed at Benny's ribcage. Benny parried and made a cut at him with his switchblade. Jeremiah hopped backwards. Benny circled, tossing the knife between his hands. Jeremiah eyed him peculiarly.

The checkered coat flashed as Benny dove in, this time bringing the switchblade in a diagonal, coming from right to left. Jeremiah leaned forward and brought both arms up, creating an X to block the attack. Benny's arm connected with Jeremiah's two, and the two held there for a few seconds, each gritting their teeth to try and get the edge.

Before they released, Jeremiah kicked. A solid, hard kick. Right to the groin.

Benny yelped and collapsed. The switchblade was dropped and skittered a few feet away. Jeremiah towered over his foe, who lay on the ground panting. Benny opened his eyes and looked at Jeremiah from the floor.

"Do it baby, make it clean," he pleaded. Jeremiah held out his free hand, and Benny stared open-mouthed. The hand remained until he took it. Jeremiah helped him up.

When Benny was standing straight up, Jeremiah struck. The combat knife found its way into Benny's ribcage, and his eyes flew wide open with shock. Jeremiah smiled.

The knife was taken out, and inserted again in a different spot in the ribcage. Benny caught his breath. Again the knife came out, and again it went in with a sickening splat.

The final time the knife was inserted, Benny was fading, Jeremiah could tell. When the knife plunged into the ribcage for the third time, Jeremiah twisted hard. Benny screamed, and placed a hand on Jeremiah's shoulder, trying to stand up.

Jeremiah swatted the hand away and threw the man in the checkered coat, now stained in blood, to the floor.

Stepping back, Jeremiah looked at Benny, dead. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, his heart beat fast, and he was out of breath. He had achieved revenge.

He had won.

* * *

It was hard explaining everything to Swank when he came to, but in the end he was convinced Benny had it coming to him. Especially when Jeremiah pulled his lighter out.

The four had regrouped in the lobby and had exchanged pleasantries. Cass had surprised Jeremiah by giving him a kiss when she saw him, though his hands had been covered in Benny's blood. He had liked that, her kissing him, though he didn't show it.

Bryan too, surprised him, by giving him a hug. Boone had stood there, stoic. They exchanged nods. It was a mutual, silent acknowledgment. Nothing had needed to have been said, and they both knew it. They were content to be reunited as the friends they used to be, even if one was hardened.

They now stood in the penthouse of the Lucky 38. Jeremiah held the Platinum Chip in his hands, the only thing he had taken from Benny. He hadn't even gone through the entire suite. All he cared about was the Chip.

The image of Mr. House looked down upon them.

"So, Benny has been handled and you have recovered the Platinum Chip? Let's have it," he said. A Securitron police man rolled up to Jeremiah, took the Chip, and inserted it into a slot in the computer.

"So small yet so...capacious...so very dear. Decades of hiring salvagers to search for this relic in the ruins of a place called Sunnyvale. Back then, anway. That's where the Chip was printed, on October 22, 2077. It was supposed to be hand-delivered to me here, at the Lucky 38, the next day. But, the bombs fell first. Suffice it to say, the delivery was never made. Until now," House finished. Jeremiah was proud, though he feared to ask the next question.

"What happens next?"

"A great deal shall be happening - a cascade of events, with you taking a central role. What you should do next, however, is take the elevator all the way to the bottom level. You shall find out soon enough..."

"No," Jeremiah told him."

House was taken aback. "W-what? What do you mean, 'no'?" he asked, angrily.

"I thought about this while I was at The Tops," Jeremiah said. "I'll take my payment and leave, sir. I have no desire to be your errand boy."

House paused. Long enough for Jeremiah to continue. "I don't want to keep going on these adventures, Mr. House. I want to settle down. I realized that all I need is right here," he looked at Boone, Cass, and Bryan. Boone nodded, and Cass was blushing. Bryan, however, appeared confused.

"Very well them," House said. "You may have your payment. I will have to find someone who will help me protect Vegas, I suppose. Thank you for your help, Mr. Winters. It has been a pleasure doing business with you. Though I will say you are throwing away a chance for everything you could have ever wanted, and more."

Jeremiah turned to face Cass. He walked over and kissed her again. "I know," he said.

"Wait!" Bryan suddenly yelled. "So, that's it?" Jeremiah nodded. "After all that, after tracking Benny for this fucking Chip all the way across the damn Mojave you just decide to leave?! What the hell is wrong with you?" he faced down Jeremiah.

"Bryan, I'm done here. I won't have any masters, not for any price," Jeremiah told him.

"Think of all the glory! The money, the fame!" Bryan asserted.

"I don't care, I don't need that."

"Well, maybe you don't, b-but..." Bryan walked over to the computer. "Mr. House! I'll do what you ask, just tell me where to go,"

Jeremiah walked over to him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Bryan, that's a mistake," he said.

Bryan jerked away. "No, it isn't. I'm making my own decisions now, Jeremiah. I don't need you," he finished. A Securitron brought Jeremiah his one thousand caps.

Mr. House spoke again. "Oh, well, this is a rather interesting change of events. I did not expect this. Thank you, young man," he said. Bryan seemed to stand a bit taller.

Jeremiah looked sadly at Bryan one last time. "Goodbye, Bryan," he said as he walked back to Cass and Boone. Cass appeared to be in tears, while Boone sat looking agitated at the young kid. The three walked towards the elevator.

They sat in silence in the elevator. Cass hugged Jeremiah and tried to control her tears. He comforted her, and the elevator finally reached the casino floor. The three remained quiet as they made their way through the casino.

When they exited the building, however, they were met by another big surprise, for the moment they walked out of the door, thirty rifles were pointed in their direction.


	12. The Republic's Mark

**Vegas **

Jeremiah was arrested outside the Lucky 38. He had just walked out the door, ready to return to wherever he was soon to be heading. Immediately, thirty guns all cocked at once, and he was faced with thirty NCR troopers. A slim, shorter man stood in the center of the group. He wore a green beret, one Jeremiah normally saw on officers. He raised his hands, as did Cass and Boone.

The officer walked forward.

"Sir, are you the courier Jeremiah Winters?" he asked.

Jeremiah nodded. "Yes, sir,"

The man walked up to him, turned him around and slapped handcuffs on. He did the same for Boone and Cass, and then walked back in front of them. "You are now being arrested for murder and attempted robbery," he said. "I have orders from Ambassador Crocker to escort you to the NCR Embassy, where you will be detained," three soldiers walked up and put their hands on the now-prisoners and began to walk them forward.

"Sir," Jeremiah said, "we have not tried to rob anyone." The officer turned, in Jeremiah's face.

"Are you, or are you not, the group that, only today, walked into The Tops and opened fire, killing eighteen and wounding more?"

Feeling defeated, Jeremiah nodded. The officer continued walking, and the soldiers followed. Crowds stood on the sidewalk, watching the company move through the Strip. A big crowd had gathered outside the doors to The Tops, and Jeremiah saw both Securitrons and NCR officials walking to and from the casino.

They walked past The Tops, past the Las Vegas Boulevard Police Station, and the Ultra-Luxe casino. Through another gate, they were now next to Vault 21 and the NCR Embassy. It appeared the embassy was their destination. The officer, whose name tag said "Hsu," ushered his three prisoners through the door. Another NCR soldier sat at a desk in the reception area, behind a computer terminal, typing. He barely looked, saluted from his desk, and said, "Colonel," as the group passed.

Colonel Hsu split the three up, and sent them all with a soldier to different rooms. Jeremiah saw this coming; normally isolation is a part of the captive game. It always came before the interrogation.

So, Jeremiah waited in a very bland room, in a cold metal chair, and leaned against a cold metal table. A reflective window was on one side of the room. He couldn't see out, but he knew people could see in. And he knew that there was someone looking in. There always was.

He waited for about fifteen minutes, before a dark-skinned man in a dusty suit came into the room. He was holding a manila folder, and made an effort to slap it on the table in front of Jeremiah. The man sat down.

"Ambassador Crocker, I presume?" Jeremiah asked. The man looked at him oddly.

"Yes, actually," Crocker said. He flipped open the folder, revealing what Jeremiah guessed was his file. "And you, are Sergeant First Class Jeremiah B. Winters, from Shady Sands. Moved to Vegas when you left home, stayed in North Vegas for a while until you decided to enlist. You flew through basic training at the age of eighteen, joined the Special Corps at age nineteen. Intelligent enough to have been a Ranger; gung-ho enough, too. You joined First Recon, instead of taking the Ranger course. Instead of going to Camp Golf, you stayed at McCarran in a little tent. Saw action at Hoover Dam, and Bitter Springs. Why?"

"Does it matter, sir?" Jeremiah asked. "I thought I was brought in for murder and attempted robbery, not why I joined Recon,"

"I'm just wondering, Mr. Winters, why someone like you would pick the lower route. Would it be so that you could fly under the radar?"

"No, sir. I joined Recon because a friend of mine did," Crocker nodded.

He continued, looking at the dossier. "You moved up the ranks pretty fast. You were promoted to Sergeant First Class before shipping out to Bitter Springs. After, you requested a discharge. Why?" he asked, looking back up.

"I didn't like the way Bitter Springs played out,"

"You didn't like killing Khans, or was there something else? You were ord-"

Jeremiah hit the table, hard. "I know what I was _ordered _to do, dammit! Truth is, you screwed up! You, Oliver, Moore, everyone did!" Jeremiah spoke of the top two officers in the NCR army, General Lee Oliver and Colonel Cassandra Moore. "We never should have been there, and you know it. It's the same situation now: if you really wanted the Legion out of here, you would've crossed the dam and ended them once and for all."

Crocker gave him a nod, and went back to reading the file. Jeremiah leaned back in the chair and massaged his wrists, where the handcuffs had been. He knew he had let himself seem frustrated, which was not a good thing. People who were frustrated were easier to manipulate. Easier to get answers from.

"Why The Tops?" the ambassador asked.

"Benny was there. The leader of the Chairmen," Jeremiah replied, still massaging his wrists.

"What's special about him?"

Jeremiah recounted the story of the Platinum Chip; everything from when he received the delivery to the moment Benny died. Crocker seemed interested, but not really surprised. "...then House asked me to work for him. I declined," he finished.

"Why? He could've given you anything,"

"I know, but I don't work for anyone. No masters,"

The ambassador nodded. "Are you proud of the Republic, Mr. Winters?"

_What is he playing at? _Jeremiah wondered. _Trying to make me feel guilty? Make me want to go back?_

Jeremiah practiced silence. Crocker stared, waiting for an answer. After a few minutes of silence, he wrote something on the dossier.

"You know, you could have been a very high-ranking officer, had you stayed in."

"You know, the whole guilt trip thing isn't going to work, Ambassador. And, if you won't start asking questions about my adventure at The Tops, which was a justified cause, then I'll be leaving," he stood, and prepared to walk out of the door when Crocker stood as well.

"If you go so much as one foot towards that door, my men will be forced to kill you," he warned.

"Ambassador," Jeremiah turned to face him. "You and I both know that glass is both reflective and bulletproof. You're men couldn't shoot in here even if they had a sudden urge. There is only one door out of here. Not a very good tactical situation. Plus, judging from the suit your wearing, I don't think you're carrying a weapon. I mean, you stay here in the embassy, why would you be in danger? And, you said yourself I could have, _should have_ been a Ranger. Even if you did have a weapon, I still have the edge. So, unless you plan on talking to me about what you brought me here to discuss, I'm going to leave."

Crocker was taken aback. He stood in a pool of his own ramshackle dignity. Finally, he motioned to the chair, nodding. Jeremiah, smiling, took a seat.

"We, uh, have a proposition. For you," Crocker told him. Jeremiah raised an eyebrow. "We as in, General Oliver and I. You have, over the past few weeks, become very interesting to our force here in the Mojave. With the growing conflict over Hoover Dam, we are looking for someone to go as an envoy to the various factions and gain their support. And we would like you to help us, Mr. Winters."

Jeremiah stood. "I told House no. What makes you guys any different?" Crocker coughed.

"Well, if you did help us, we would need to put you back in the military. Military Police, of course. You would be given hazard pay, as well as an increased salary. You would have an office on the base at McCarran, of course. You would be promoted to Captain. As for a reward, your family would receive a monetary gift as well as luxury in Shady Sands. What do you say?"

"No, thanks," Jeremiah said, rising again.

Crocker stood, shocked. "What? You won't even consider?"

Jeremiah put his hand out. "You got a 'No, _thanks_.' That is one 'thanks' more than House got. Feel happy," he said. Crocker looked at him, mouth open. He simply watched, without objection, as Jeremiah stood and exited the room.

When the door shut, Ambassador Crocker sat back down in the chair.

"Damn," he whispered, slightly amazed.

* * *

Boone led Cass and Jeremiah out of the NCR Embassy. As it turned out, Boone and Cass had not been put in an interrogation room; instead, they were sent to the officer's lounge to have drinks. The ambassador had to find an excuse to bring Jeremiah in to give him the NCR's proposition.

The three were talking about plans now. Boone said he would become a drifter, wandering from town to town, maybe finding part-time jobs to sustain himself. Jeremiah mentioned the Mojave Express, but he didn't seem to enjoy that idea. Jeremiah himself had heard there was money waiting to be made in the brahmin business. There was apparently a man in Vegas that was heavily involved, and he was thinking of buying some brahmin from him with the caps House had given him.

Cass said she would go wherever Jeremiah went, which was perfectly fine for him.

"Now, I say that 'cause it gets exciting wherever you go, not because I have a crush on you or anything," she defended herself. "Crushes are for kids,"

He nodded, trying to hold back a smile.

Suddenly, a man in a suit ran up to him. He was wearing a fine brown suit, one that was brown from the fedora all the way down to the shoes.

"The eyes of the mighty Caesar are upon you. He admires your accomplishments, and bestows upon you the exceptional gift of his Mark." the man put a necklace with a bronze medallion around Jeremiah's neck. "Your crimes against the Legion are hereby forgiven. Caesar will not extend this mercy again. My Lord requires your presence at his camp, at Fortification Hill. His mark will guarantee your safe-conduct through our lands. Seek Caesar by way of Cottonwood Cove, south of Nelson. The Cursor Lucullus will be waiting," he finished. The man turned and ran back towards the crowds on the roads.

The three stood, bewildered. Boone turned to Jeremiah when they were done staring off towards where the man had gone.

"First House, then Crocker, and now Caesar wants you. What do you think he wants?" he asked.

Jeremiah looked at him. "Probably the same thing the other two you mentioned wanted,"

Boone raised an eyebrow. Cass choked. "What're you going to do?"

"What can I do? I'll go, and probably get whacked doing it..."

"Not if we go with you," Cass added. Jeremiah wheeled to face her.

"No, that's out of the question. I'm not asking you to fight my battles for me, or get killed along with me,"

"We shot up a casino with you, didn't we? Boulder City?" Boone asked.

"Orris?" Cass quipped. Jeremiah sat on the curb, exasperated. He sighed, and looked at the bronze medallion the Legion messenger gave him. Probably a Frumentarius, singular of Frumentarii, Caesar's spies.

Cass sat next to him on the curb and put an arm through one of his. He looked at her and smiled. Boone lit up a cigar and rolled his eyes. Jeremiah looked up questioningly when he began pulling on it.

"I didn't know you smoked," he observed.

Boone took the cigar from his mouth. "I don't," he said.

Jeremiah raised an eyebrow.

"I found this in the Lucky 38, in a mail slot. It was in a carton that said 'Cuban' on the top. I don't know what the hell a 'Cuban' is, but this cigar is pretty damn good. I got like, twenty of 'em,"

"I want one," Jeremiah told him. Boone rummaged through his pack and pulled out a wooden box. Sure enough, the word 'Cuban' was marked on the top. Opening it, Boone tossed a him a cigar. Jeremiah turned it around in his hands before putting it in his mouth. He pulled Benny's lighter out.

"So," Boone began as he lit the cigar, "we going to take Caesar up on his offer?" Jeremiah took a few deep pulls on the cigar, and spent several moments in thought. Finally, after a few more pulls, he nodded.

"Yeah," he said. The three began walking towards the Strip gate, and ultimately, the Mojave Wasteland.

"Bring those along," Jeremiah added, pointing at the box. He thought he heard Boone chuckle, faintly; barely audible.

* * *

**Cottonwood Cove**

The three walked down towards a dock, next to which a barge lay in the water. A Legionnaire, Jeremiah guessed the Cursor Lucullus, waited on board. As they stepped onto the dock, Boone tapped him.

"You are aware that this may be the last boat we ever take, right?" he asked. Jeremiah faced him.

"Craig, try to control your anger. If you shoot now, they'll shoot us down like dogs. For Carla to be avenged, we have to take down as many Legionnaires as we can, together," he said. Boone bit his lip and looked at him through his sunglasses. Cass had walked ahead, and now stood ready to board the barge. The two stood and looked at each other. Boone grunted.

"I need another cigar," he mumbled as they walked towards the barge.

"Awe," the Cursor Lucullus said. "Are you ready to travel upriver?"

"Yes, I am ready to go," Jeremiah told him.

"Very well. The trip will take a few hours, take your place on the boat," Lucullus said. Jeremiah, followed by Boone and Cass, climbed on board. Slowly, they set off upriver. Jeremiah lay on his back. The night sky hung over him. He hadn't slept in nearly thirty six hours, thanks to his constant motion and the adrenaline that was only now wearing off. Boone took his place at the front, constantly looking north, towards Hoover Dam and the Fort. Cass sat by Jeremiah, watching him while he lay on the wood foundation.

As he looked up into the night sky, Jeremiah thought of his interrogation by Ambassador Crocker, and his dossier.

_I could've been a Ranger. I could be a major by now. Or a colonel. I could join again; they were prepared to let me. Military Police...I could've become a general. _

Slowly, he breathed in and out, and soon was asleep, the sound of the Colorado River pulsing against the barge filling his ears.

* * *

He was rudely awakened three hours later by a Legionnaire, and opened his eyes to see the barge being docked by Lucullus. A dock sat in a hill on the bank, by which were gates that Jeremiah guessed led into the Fort. Another Legionnaire stood at attention next to the gates. Everyone on the barge, save for Lucullus, walked off the barge and began to walk towards the gates.

"By order of Caesar, all visitors must disarm and relinquish all banned items," the guard by the gate said when they approached.

"What is considered a banned item?" Jeremiah asked.

"Alcohol and all chems, including stims and other addictive items,"

"I have to bring them along, a uh, congenital heart defect," Jeremiah lied.

The gate paused, and nodded, motioning for them to continue on through. The three handed over all weapons, and Jeremiah was the only allowed to keep medicine of any kind. The gates opened, and they proceeded.

Immediately, they saw the crosses. There was a line of them, lining up nearly inside the gate. Many had skeletons on it, a few had live people nailed to them. Jeremiah heard Boone growl from behind him; a deep, rumbling noise coming from the inside of his throat. Cass began to walk a bit closer to him. The three turned right, and walked up a hill. Around and around it went, until they reached the crest. Along the way they encountered Legionnaires alike, as well as slaves. The slaves wore tattered clothing, rags mostly. Some carried giant packs on their back, others just wandered around the camp, some being beaten by their slavers.

At the top of the hill, looking west, the trio could look down onto the Colorado River, and Hoover Dam. The Legion's close proximity to the dam made Jeremiah's stomach churn. And from the all the training soldiers, he knew the climax was nearly upon them. The tents were another thing in itself: there were hundreds, and each contained two to ten soldiers. After all, Caesar had gained fame through the conquest of eighty-six tribes. Though many hated him, they also respected him.

Another gate led them to the inner sector of Fortification Hill. Here was the fighting arena as well as Caesar's tent, which lay up another hill at very top. More Legionnaires walked by, wearing almost identical armor; different sorts of padding, bound together by leather, over red robe-like clothes. The addition of padding coincided with rank; recruits to prime to veterans, all the way through centurions, praetorians, and the legates. Jeremiah exhaled in an attempt to calm himself. If something went wrong, he wouldn't make it past Caesar's tent,

Finally, they reached his tent. Two guards stood outside, and one opened the flap and ushered them inside. Walking inside, they ventured down a small hallway-like part of the tent, which opened into a courtyard area. Caesar sat on a throne which looked to be made of bones.

Caesar himself was, to Jeremiah, not much. He didn't appear to be muscular or strong. He looked to be the same size of either Jeremiah, if not a bit shorter. Bald, too. A pneumatic displacer glove was on his right wrist. Jeremiah, Cass, and Boone walked right up to the throne.

"You're the courier who has caused so much trouble, yet you still come before me. Tell me this, because I would really like to know. I am feared - and with good reason. But you - a lowly courier - dare to come here and stand before me, the mighty Caesar. What were you thinking?"

Jeremiah stood staring at the man. Finally, he answered. "I had to see the mighty Caesar with my own eyes,"

"Maybe I should have you struck blind so my face is the last thing you behold," he replied angrily. "Look, you do know why I wanted to meet you, right? A man nearly kills you, so you track him across the breadth of the Mojave? You arrive on the Strip and waltz into the Lucky 38 like someone left you a key under the doormat? You assassinate the head of the Chairmen in his own casino - and get away with it? When you set your mind to something, you get results. I like that. The question is, are you ready to get started?" Caesar asked.

The reply came swiftly. A blow to the little bald man's dignity. Jeremiah didn't have to think over it.

"No," Caesar nearly let his mouth hang open. "House and the NCR already approached me. I'll tell you what I told them. I'm not an errand boy. Besides, I don't even have the Platinum Chip anymore,"

"Who does?" Caesar asked when his composure had been regained.

"The errand boy for House,"

"Well listen here, you little shit," Caesar said, grabbing Jeremiah by his jacket collar. "You should probably think again about who you tell 'No' to. You should feel lucky I haven't killed you by now, because I certainly could have. I still can. And right now this displacer glove is pretty cold. So, would you like to try again?"

Jeremiah answered him with a mouthful of spit to the face.

Caesar yelled, wiping the spit from his face. He then hit Jeremiah, hard, with his left hand. A hard shot, right to the nose. Everyone in the tent heard it break with a sickening _Crack! _Jeremiah fell backwards into the dirt. Cass whimpered, and Boone growled again. Caesar was fuming.

Two Legionnaires walked over and picked up Jeremiah, who shook them away. The hit to his nose had caused his eyes to water, and his face stung. As he straightened himself, he smacked himself in the nose with the heel of his hand. The bone sat itself, but the sting only increased.

"Fuck you, you bald little bitch. You'll burn with the rest of your Legion," Jeremiah spat. Caesar turned away, walking into a separate tent behind the throne.

"Leave!" he yelled. "And remember, I will show mercy no more,"

Caesar's Praetorian guards pointed towards the exit, and the trio turned. When they exited the tent, Caesar returned from his inner tent. He turned to a group of Legionnaires.

"Kill them," he commanded.

* * *

The three were practically jogging out of the Fort. Not fast enough to be alarming, but not slow enough to be lingering. They were walking down the outer hill when five Legionnaires encircled them.

"Halt, profligates," one of them said.

Jeremiah didn't wait for an open invitation. When he saw them approaching, the stimpak was already in his hand, the syringe protector popped off. He kept walking when the Legionnaires finished circling them. He closed the distance between him and one in two steps, and used the needle of the stimpak to slash the man's throat open. Blood began to pour out, and the man screamed. Grabbing the man's machete, he finished him off with a stab in the throat. The other four charged. Cass and Boone were on two, engaged in heavy hand-to-hand combat. Jeremiah flung the machete at another, cutting the man across the forehead. Blood came out from the cut fast and began to cover the man's eyes, blinding him. A quick stab in the stomach finished him. Boone and Cass subdued their attackers, and the three set off at a dead run down the hill, while the last Legionnaire ran after them, yelling for help.

Suddenly, the Hill exploded in shouts from Legionnaires and gunfire. Bullets flew past as people ran from tents and fired off their weapons at the running group. Ducking behind a rock, they were granted a brief lift in the hasty retreat.

"Some serious shit just hit the fan!" Jeremiah yelled. Boone nodded. Cass crouched nearby. The sharp crack of small arms and the sound of bullets hitting dirt was everywhere.

"D'ya think they took our weapons anywhere?" Cass suddenly asked. The two men looked at her, then at each other.

Boone shrugged. "I wouldn't think so, but where would they put them?"

"I don't know, but I don't plan on sticking around to try and find them," Jeremiah yelled over the sound of battle. A Legionnaire jumped out from in front of the rock, and Boone ran him through with a machete.

"Any plans? We can't stay here long," he said, aggravated.

Jeremiah looked around. They were up against the side of the hill, far away from the gate. To get there, they would need to run straight through the camp. They were surrounded by either the entire camp, cliffs that led farther into the camp, or cliffs that led down into the Colorado River. The answer was, literally, all around them. The answer was, quite literally, all around them.

"We'll run to the cliffs," he told them. Cass and Boone stared at him like he was crazy. "Run to the cliffs, and jump into the Colorado. There is no other way. We can't find our weapons, and slinging stimpaks and machetes won't help much if we charge through the camp,"

Cass and Boone stared a few moments longer, before a bullet ricocheted off the cliff wall behind him and onto the rock in front. The two jerked back to reality.

"Damn," Boone stated flatly. "I really like my rifle,"

"You won't have time to miss it if we stay much longer," Jeremiah noted.

Collectively, they all nodded. Jeremiah figured distance. They would have to run southwest.

Waiting until a slight cease in the fire, the three ran like hell. Bullets followed them as they went, hitting even Jeremiah's jacket as it trailed behind them. Ducking in and out of tents, the three finally made it to the cliff edge. They stopped, hesitating.

"Last chance," Boone announced. "On second thought, not really,"

Behind them, Legionnaires were charging. Others stood behind those, and on their sides, firing at the three on the cliff edge. "Do we even need a countdown?" Jeremiah asked. A quick shake of the head announced their opinion. They backed up, and pulled their clothes a bit tighter. For the last time, they ran.

At the edge, they jumped. The sound of gunfire left them, and the Colorado River rushed up to meet them.

**End of Part One**


	13. Stars and Stripes Forever

**A/N: Strap yourself in; it's going to be a bumpy ride. **

* * *

**Part Two**

_"There is no hope. But I am not so helpless as at one time I was afraid I should be."_

-A.E.W. Mason, "The Four Feathers"

September changed to October, then to November, and finally December in the blink of any eye across the Mojave. One hundred and twenty-two days. Two thousand, nine hundred and twenty-eight hours, and one hundred seventy-five thousand, six hundred and eighty seconds. In all that time, many things happened, and quite quickly.

They all culminated in the same event: the second battle for Hoover Dam. Taking place on the cold morning of December twelfth, 2281, Caesar and his Legion attempted to cross the dam once again. The armies of the NCR, led by General Lee Oliver and Colonel Cassandra Moore, as well as Mr. House's Securitron army, led by Bryan O'Neil, stood at the other end, waiting.

However, the Mr. House had done his homework since the first time these sides clashed.

Thanks to Mr. House and the works by Bryan O'Neil, the Securitrons were not fighting unassisted. A collective work from such factions as the Boomer of Nellis Air Force Base, the families of Vegas, and the remnants of the Enclave aided O'Neil and his army at the battle for Hoover Dam. Needless to say, it was not struggle.

The battle itself lasted nearly four hours, and was largely one-sided. Almost as soon as the shooting started, the force of the NCR began to tear at the throat of the Legion. The Securitrons followed quickly after.

Though the might of the defense was astounding and vicious, the Legion remained strong for nearly five hours. That was until the vertibird gunships, flown by the Boomers, came in for a bombing run. They flew low and straight, strafing the terrified legionnaires, who picked up and ran for the hills of Arizona. Caesar himself ran.

After the victory, Robert House and Bryan O'Neil met with President Kimball and Ambassador Crocker to negotiate the spoils. They came up with The Hoover Act. This act let Mr. House keep his ownership and proprietory rights of Vegas, and made O'Neil his subordinate. The two would retain authority over Vegas and the surrounding areas. In return, the Securitrons would only be used in extreme cases, and the NCR military would be the police force. A small detachment would be kept in towns and at outposts in the wastes, keeping the peace. Simple as that.

In January, the Powder Gangers fell under the protection of the NCR. They were made the police's judiciary. The NCR Correctional Facility outside of Primm, repaired, was put into use. Prisoners got sent there constantly, some sentenced to one night, some to life.

Slowly, the Mojave became a somewhat safer place. The NCR could not keep total peace, but it proved to be better than it was before Hoover Dam. However, in the areas surrounding Vegas, it remained the same; vice and crime reigned. The drug-addicted Fiends remained around Vault 3; Westside stayed impoverished and drug crazy. Freeside...well, it was Freeside, which was better because of the actions of a battered courier. Vegas stayed Vegas. A city of committed to vice and sin, what's not to love?

Big changes in such a fast, little space of time. The Mojave became a different place, if only slightly.

The first year was different, and many people were hard to change. However, new problems would soon arise that would test everyone in the Mojave. The hardest time would soon come. And through it all, the lights of Vegas would stay lit and stay bright.

And life went on...

* * *

**Primm **

Karl thought over the details of his task as he walked through Primm at dusk. Caesar had fled, but not all of the Legion had. Vulpes had told them to stay, and they had stayed. He hadn't specified why, only that Caesar had given them an important task. Now he knew what that task was. All of the intense training they had done from the time Hoover Dam fell to the present was about to pay off, in a big way. Karl smiled; he was finally going to get his chance to prove himself in the eyes of his superiors. All of his time laboring for the Legion in Red Rock Canyon were about to be worth it.

People walked along the streets, moving between the two casinos and homes on the sides. Primm, like most Mojave towns, had expanded after the Legion left. Especially after the reformed Powder Gangers moved into the NCRCF a few miles away, some needed relaxation on their off weeks. The Mojave Express began carrying packages to places as far as New Canaan, Portland, and even Seattle.

Walking swiftly, Karl brushed dust off of his clothes. For this job he had chosen to be comfortable: jeans and a white shirt. A black leather vest would cover up anything that got on him, if it turned to be that messy. The building was coming up on his right, and his target was sitting out front.

Johnson Nash sat on a bench outside the door to his home, eating a sandwich. He saw the young man come up, and greeted him from the bench.

"Greetings, youngster," Nash said. "What brings you to Primm today?"

Karl stood over him. "I'm looking for a job with the Mojave Express," he told him.

"Ah, well, let's head inside and I'll see what I can do for you," Nash said, gesturing to the building behind him. The two walked inside. Karl heard Nash mumble something about the winter as he prepared himself, choosing to bend down and fake tying a shoelace as he found the small machete strapped to his pant leg.

The machete came free of the leg strap and found its way out of the sheath. Nash, having just walked around the counter and opening a ledger, heard the sound of the blade rubbing the sheath, and ducked as Karl's first strike flew.

It had been a downward strike, and Nash's evasive maneuver caused the machete to land on the ledger. The book stuck to the blade, and Karl quickly tore it away and ran around the counter, searching for his target.

Nash saw his attacker swerve around the counter, and having already drawn his .357 revolver, shot twice. One bullet hit the machete mid swing, and it was broken into two clean halves. Karl staggered backwards as the second bullet landed in his shoulder. Raising the revolver again, Nash aimed towards the heart. He pulled the trigger.

The hammer clicked. Karl licked his lips and raised the broken machete.

Nash took a glance down at his gun and cursed. Karl charged as the revolver left Johnson's hand, in a last ditch attempt at defense. The gun flipped through the air twice and hit Karl in the stomach. His vision blurred some, and through the haze saw Nash begin to roll over the counter. He calculated when he thought the target's front side would land, and pulled his arm back.

Nash's feet hit the wooden floor, and the machete zipped through the air.

* * *

**Camp McCarran**

Captain Ronald Curtis laid his head down on his desk, and sighed. The office was cold, due to the blasting evaporative cooler somewhere in the building. That was another thing he didn't understand about the NCR: in the dead of winter, and the top people blast the cold air? For this particular night, however, he could bear it.

This job had been special, he had known the moment Vulpes told him. This was the very reason they inserted him in the NCR. He had been proud, even if he had to endure serving the alongside profligates.

Curtis checked his watch. It read midnight. _Perfect,_ he thought. Reaching into a drawer of his desk, he retrieved two items: a ten millimeter pistol, recently polished and only fired once (the day before, in preparation for tonight), and a suppressor. He took both out, and laid them on his desk. Carefully, he took the gun apart, looked the parts over, and put it back together. Satisfied, he screwed the suppressor on, and put the gun in his uniform pocket.

Stretching, he stood up, and exited the office. Turning right inside the old airport building, he found himself in the entrance, and among the slot machines. The McCarran terminal building had housed the NCR military brass since their insertion here, and the old building had served them well. While the common soldiers stayed outside in tents, enclosed by the wall, the top brass got the indoors, and the cooling units. He made his way through the baggage check and out a garage door, and was now behind the terminal, where the runway and dilapidated planes sat, two hundred years rusting.

The control tower sat off conjoined to the wall, near the runway. The NCR never put guards in it, for some odd reason. The Legion would take all precautions necessary, and of that Curtis was sure. They had trained them all in that way. Caesar, Legate Graham, Legate Lanius, even Vulpes had taught them during their extra training to become Frumentarii, the Legion's eyes and ears.

Reaching the control tower, he entered his password into the terminal next to the door, and went inside. Lightly he jogged up the steps leading to the upper floor, where the "control" part of the tower was. On a desk overlooking the base sat his items: a HAM radio, a lamp, and a notepad. Curtis smiled as he flipped on the HAM, and listened as the radio crackled to life.

Almost immediately, a signal came through. A nasal, penetrating voice spoke. "Picus, Picus, do you copy, over?" it asked, referring to him by his call sign.

Curtis flipped on the lamp, and picked up his mic. "Wolf-Mother, this is Picus. What is the news? Over," he said.

"The Den has gotten word from our friend Desert Lizard. He says, 'The Postman is down,'." Hearing this, Curtis smiled.

"So, it appears our plans are going as we expected," he replied.

"Indeed. Are you prepared to eliminate the Servant?" Wolf-Mother asked.

Curtis nodded, even though they were on radio. "I am, Wolf-Mother. The Servant shall fall tonight."

"Very well, Picus. We shall meet in two weeks time to talk about your next operation. Awe, true to Caesar."

"Awe," Curtis replied, and the radio returned to static. He reached over a wrote a note on the notepad, and walked to the window, watching the garage door for his target to exit.

He had planned it right. Colonel Hsu normally went for early morning jogs around the base. Curtis made the appointment at midnight, three hours beforehand. He knew that Hsu would probably still be sleeping, not ready yet for his before-the-crack-of-dawn run. So, he waited for the garage door to open.

It opened in exactly twenty-two minutes. Curtis watched as Hsu did a few last minute stretches before setting off at an easy pace, right in his direction. Curtis flipped off the lamp and strode back down the stairs. Once outside, the Captain continued to walk in the Colonel's direction. The gap between the two closed in a matter of seconds, and Hsu slowed as he approached.

"Morning, Captain Curtis," he said in his authoritative tone. "What brings you out so early?" The two saluted.

"You, actually, Colonel," the Frumentarius answered.

Hsu cocked his head to the side. "I don't think I understand," he wondered aloud.

"No, I guess you wouldn't. No one in your government does," Curtis said, drawing his pistol. Hsu stepped back, and raised his hands. His expression was of shock, betrayal, and hurt.

"Dammit, Ronald! What are you doing?" he demanded. "I knew there was something going on. Missing supplies, our patrols running into ambushes. Why you? You were one of my most trusted officers!"

Picus smiled. "I have a higher authority than pathetic _President _Kimball and even-more-so-pathetic _General _Oliver. I serve Caesar. His reign is coming, James. You are lucky you will not be here when he returns, for every NCR officer will be nailed to the cross," he finished, and cocked his pistol. Hsu flinched.

"You're pathetic," he spat. "We will crush Caesar like we have done twice before. You're Legion will fall like they always have!"

Curtis growled, and Hsu charged. The colonel leaped at the captain, who swatted him aside. Curtis swung his arm and fired. A ten millimeter bullet hit Hsu in the thigh, causing him to clutch at the wound. He turned back towards the traitor, and threw himself again forward. This time, however, he was successful.

Hsu landed on Curtis, and the two fell. When they landed, a pocket of Curtis' uniform ripped, and a single gold Denarius fell from it. Neither noticed, as they rolled over it, Curtis on the bottom. Tired and weak from blood loss, Hsu put both hands around Curtis' throat, and began to squeeze. Against the ground, Curtis fumbled for his gun as he choked, trying to bring air into his lungs. The colonel squeezed harder and harder, grinding his teeth together. Suddenly, there was a muffled _Pfft! _Hsu's eyes went wide, and his hands went slack.

Gasping, Curtis removed his the hands from his throat, and crawled out from under the dead man. Hsu's body fell directly over the Denarius.

Captain Ronald Curtis stood, massaging his throat. He was breathing in fast, sending air to his lungs. Blood covered the chest of his uniform, where he guessed his second shot had landed. He looked around for the shell casing, and quickly ran back inside the base, and into the safety of his office.

* * *

**Two Days Later**

Seventeen miles southeast of Primm, south of the Nipton Highway, a ranch sat in the ground.

Fairly new, it had opened the October before Hoover Dam. The proprietor had bargained with brahmin-king Heck Gunderson, and had, surprisingly, been sold a few head of cattle. The move shocked the brahmin business, as Heck Gunderson normally makes deals with no one except himself. Needless to say, the owner of the ranch had made a hard bargain.

He originally lived at the Wolfhorn Ranch, but after a while decided he wanted to build his own place, and so had settled southeast of Primm, on the edge of the desert plains. The owner had used wood bought from the NCR and built a fairly nice size ranch: it consisted of one large ranch house and one large barn. A fence encircled the area, and a corral connected to the barn. The ranch house had running (clean) water, two bedrooms, a fully operational kitchen, and a sitting area. Some people said this ranch would soon rival that of Heck Gunderson's own.

Now, Jeremiah stood examining a broken wooden fence board that connected a small wooden gate to the interior of the ranch as the morning sun warmed his back. The little bitch kept falling apart, and it had riled him a bit. He picked the board up, and placed it back in its position on the fence. Propping it with his knee, he pulled a hammer from the ground and began hammering the board back into the fencepost. A few minutes later, the board was good again. Wiping his brow, he leaned against it to test its strength. When he was satisfied, he straightened his brown vest over his light brown pullover, and looked down the road.

As he took a canteen of coffee from his belt, his eyes graced a lone figure, walking up. The man, he guessed it was man from the size, appeared to be walking slow and about two hundred yards away. Jeremiah took three gulps of coffee before halfway turning to the house.

"Cass!" he yelled. "Bring me my rifle!"

Keeping his eye down the road, he waited for the woman of the household to retrieve his rifle. He imagined her in his mind, hearing his call, walking from either their room or the sitting room and grabbing the rifle from its perch above the mantel. About the time he guessed she would be at the door he heard it shut.

Her footsteps on the dirt met his ears, and he turned. "We have a visitor," he indicated down the road as he leaned in for a kiss. She handed him the rifle and perched on his shoulder.

"Don't be too rash," she cooed. He shook her off, and she began walking back to the cabin, smiling. He smiled, too.

His eyes back on the lone figure, he made sure his rifle was loaded. Another gift from the House's payment, the repeater had been bought from the Gun Runner's after his dive into the Colorado River ruined That Gun. Though he preferred the cool shot of Lucky, his trigger finger missed That Gun for the first few weeks. After a few times defending the ranch with his repeater, he decided it was a dandy gun.

Cass had watched him from inside one day as he shot targets with it.

"I never figured you much for a cowboy, you know," she had said when he entered the house.

"Well, I'm just full of surprises," he had quipped, smiling at her.

"A cowboy needs a hat," she told him. He had sat in a chair in the sitting room, preparing to polish his repeater's silver receiver. She pranced over to him and laid a dark brown felt hat on his head. He quickly took it off and examined it. It was slightly bigger than a fedora, but much less obtrusive than a ten gallon cowboy hat. He laughed and returned it to his head. He hadn't bothered to ask where she had gotten it.

Jeremiah though back on it as he watched the figure walk closer to the fence. His hand found its way from the repeater to his hat, then to his beard, which he stroked. After his adventures one year ago, he had decided that every rancher needs a beard. It was rough, but still less nasty than some beards he had seen, and it was the same chocolate brown color of his hair. He smiled.

After five minutes of watching, the figure got close enough he could see distinguishing marks. Only one was really needed: the red beret on the man's head gave his identity away.

Boone. Jeremiah sighed and lowered his rifle.

As his friend approached, Jeremiah noticed he was wearing NCR standard-issue facewrap with his normal "Boone fatigues", as Jeremiah had come to call them. He figured the facewrap was being worn on account of all the dust. Boone stopped at the gate. Jeremiah leaned on the fence and leaned over and gave a friendly wave. Boone walked over.

"Haven't heard from you in awhile, Craig," Jeremiah said as the two shook hands.

"I've been wandering, like I thought I would," he returned.

"You didn't go back to Novac?"

Boone gave a slight shrug. "There isn't anything for me there,"

Jeremiah nodded. Slowly, he eyed his friend, under the sun. The facewrap had been moved below his mouth. Boone's features hadn't changed in the past year. They were all hard and tight. The brow was scowled, eyes set straight, and his mouth in a deep frown. Always appeared to be thinking over something difficult. Probably was.

When Jeremiah didn't reply, he continued. "I walked around before Hoover Dam. Hunting legionnaires. Killed some, missed some. My time is coming, Jeremiah. It's all about to catch up to me, I can feel it."

"What're you talking about?"

"All of the stuff I've done. I don't expect to live to a happy old age. That wouldn't be fit. No, I'll die by the bullet like everyone I've killed has."

Jeremiah sighed, walked to the gate, and unlatched it. Boone glided through, and the two stood for a second, staring at each other.

Finally, after a few seconds of silence, the two embraced. When they released, Jeremiah motioned him inside. Cass opened the door as the sound of their boots thudded against the wood porch. She greeted Boone and quickly ushered him inside and into a recliner.

He sat down and glanced around. Inside, the decorations were minimal, and the furniture was nothing spectacular. All of it was salvaged from Nipton.

"You really have changed the place from when you first built it," Boone remarked. Jeremiah nodded.

"I couldn't have built it without your help," he replied from the small kitchen. Boone just grunted.

Two minutes saw two cups of coffee in the two men's hands. Cass told Jeremiah she would check the brahmin, and left the two alone. Jeremiah took a seat on the couch, and eyed his friend. Boone sipped his coffee quietly.

"What brings you out here, Craig?" Jeremiah finally asked. Cold eyes looked up from the coffee, and suddenly Boone was business.

"I have been tasked by our mutual friend Bryan O'Neil to investigate the deaths of two prominent figures in the Mojave. They both died around roughly the same time, two days ago. One was murdered in the evening, and the second early the next morning. The signs on their bodies indicate foul play. The NCR believes they were murdered. It looks professional," he said gravely.

Jeremiah waved a hand. "And you came here thinking I would want to tag along?"

Boone nodded. "The two dead men are Johnson Nash and Colonel James Hsu. I thought that would mean something to you,"

When the names of the deceased were said, Jeremiah froze. He thought that fact was odd. An NCR colonel, and the head of the mail service? Boone was right about one thing: two prominent figures of the Mojave, and both dead within hours of each other? That being said, the two were about as far apart in similarities as one could get.

"What did Bryan say?" Jeremiah asked. Boone sighed.

"Not much. Only that House wanted it looked at, and he didn't have time,"

"Well the NCR is the police. They investigate this kind of thing. Why didn't he call them? Isn't Jay Barnes still in the military police?" Boone shook his head.

"No, he got out around the time we did, maybe a little later. He went private," Jay Barnes was, at one time, the NCR military police's finest investigator. The three went through basic training together, and had become friends. "He has an office in the Aerotech Park area. That reminds me, I was just in Vegas,"

"So?"

"Heck Gunderson is in town from his ranch in the northwest. He caught me, said if you were interested, he'd like to have a meeting with you. Said he's staying at the Ultra-Luxe," Jeremiah scoffed.

"He probably already wants to buy me out. If you see him again, you can tell him I'll sell this place when hell freezes over," Boone nodded, and looked at his coffee.

"You got anything stronger than this?" he asked. Jeremiah pulled a small tin canteen from his pocket, and poured its contents into Boone's mug.

"Scotch. I drink more of that stuff in my coffee than Cass does whiskey. You still drinking a lot?"

"More. Since we stopped traveling, I've had quite some time to think on my sins,"

"Like what?"

Boone took a few swigs of his coffee, and sat staring into his mug for a few minutes. Finally, he sighed. His sigh sounded tired, and a bit resigned.

"Things like Bitter Springs, and my wife," Jeremiah nodded.

"I know about Bitter Springs. What about your wife?" he asked. Boone looked at him from behind his dark sunglasses. Jeremiah wondered if he ever took them off.

"I told you before, that is a conversation I'm not ready to have. Not yet. Maybe not ever,"

Jeremiah shrugged. Every time he pursued that end, it always ended with a single, finite rejection.

Boone downed the rest of his drink in a single swallow. "So, you in?"

The floor creaked as Jeremiah leaned back in his chair. Staring out the open window, he looked out at his barn. Did he have time to play detective for Bryan and House? No, not really. But, to be back in the field, if only for a short time, would be nice. A break of the routine. He sighed.

"Johnson Nash was a good man, and any fellow who whacks him deserves to die," he declared, standing up. "I'll go pack my bag. Cass!" he called. She walked in from their room. He filled her in on the situation, though he knew she had been listening through the door.

"Can you hold down the ranch for a few days?" he asked.

"Of course! What do you think I am, a housewife?" she joked. He laughed, and leaned in for a kiss. It took him five minutes to pack. He took off his ranching clothes, trading them for wandering wear: leather chaps, a light brown vest with the accompanying jacket, and his hat. Since he was going to Vegas, he paked his best suit. A duster from a coat rack in finished off his case.

In the bedroom, he found his weapons. Deciding to leave the repeater, he quickly pulled out his two new revolvers. After losing Lucky and That Gun on the cliffs above the Colorado, he invested in two, heavy .45 calibre revolvers. They reminded him of the Sequoia's the NCR Rangers carried, with smooth wooden grips and dark grey barrels. As he followed Boone outside, he turned back to Cass.

"I won't be gone long. If I will, I'll come pick you up, take you somewhere more hospitable," she laughed, and pushed him out the door.

Jeremiah and Boone walked down the porch, and began the trek towards Primm.

* * *

**Primm**

Walking through the streets of Primm, Jeremiah knew the town had been shaken by the death of its leader. The town was quiet, and people seemed to move in a hurry. They walked with their heads down, not daring to look in the direction of the Mojave Express station, and the Nash residence.

Ruby Nash stood outside the door to her house, sitting in a chair. Tear marks streaked her face. The two offered their condolences before entering.

The scene in the house was not as grotesque as they thought it would be. Johnson's body appeared to have been left untouched afterwards, save for the rigor. Jeremiah thought that as strange. Normally, he would have thought that the local NCR authority would have searched the scene. Perhaps House gave them a heads up? Jeremiah motioned for Boone to examine the corpse.

Blood had pooled a little from the body, which leaned up against the counter. A few items appeared to have been knocked from the counter. A ledger lay on the floor in front of the counter, and Jeremiah picked it up. A deep cut, nearly through all of the pages to the hard cover, ran parallel to the top and bottom.

Walking to the right end of the counter, Jeremiah found small drops of blood on the floor and counter. Behind the counter next to the mail slots, he saw a .357 magnum revolver laying on the floor. At one time, it had been partially loaded. Three bullets where in the chamber. The first three had been fired, it seemed. Jeremiah turned, facing where the blood spots had been, and saw two bullet holes in the back wall. He smiled.

To his right, Boone was standing, facing him. The two met at the door.

"What does the body tell us?" Jeremiah asked.

"One slash, from the shoulder to the mid chest area, going left to right," he showed on himself. "Not too deep, probably just to weaken him a bit. The real blow came with the second hit; a deep penetrating stab, right next to the heart. Pretty clean, only two hits," he finished. Jeremiah nodded.

"Well, it may not have been that clean. Here's what it looks like to me," Jeremiah positioned himself in front of the door. Boone followed him.

"I think Nash led the two inside. It would be a surprise attack, and from behind. So they walk in," Jeremiah took two steps forward, "and Johnson walks behind the counter and picks up this book," he indicated the ledger, "then, our killer takes out his knife and swings, only Nash sees and evades. The knife hits the book instead. When the killer pulls the knife out, it fell," Boone nodded.

"Then, the killer runs to the right, to the end of the counter," Jeremiah walked over to the end, near the blood spots. "Here. Nash then pulls his revolver, and fires three times. He misses twice, but hits the guy the third time. Or any other combination, only he missed twice and hit once. The guy is bleeding," he pointed to the blood and the bullet holes in the wall.

"Johnson drops the gun, and runs back around towards the door. However, the guy is too fast, and gets to him when he rounds the counter," he stopped.

Boone nodded. "That all makes sense, but I don't see a regular knife doing this," he pointed to the body and to the ledger.

Jeremiah shrugged, and began walking around the counter towards the door. However, when he got to the end of the counter, a glint of metal caught his eye. In the corner of the room, next to the Express Dropbox, was a small piece of metal. One end was sharpened to a point, and the other appeared broken. Jeremiah walked over, motioning to Boone. He picked up the metal, and twirled it in his hand.

"Looks thin. You think this is what he got killed with?" he asked.

Boone shook his head. "No, there isn't blood on it. What do you think it is?"

"I'd say machete, but who sharpens the end of theirs to a point?"

"The Legion doesn't. Even if they did, they're gone. It could be a Khan machete, or some other kind of tribal knife. Keep it, it may help," he told him. The two nodded, and walked back outside.

* * *

**Camp McCarran**

The scene at the military base was worse, by far. Colonel Hsu lay in a pool of his own blood, face down, near the control tower. The blood had spread pretty far from the body. Jeremiah and Boone were accompanied by Corporal Walter Hornsby and Captain Ronald Curtis to the scene. Upon seeing the body, Jeremiah groaned and Boone muttered a curse under his breath.

Corporal Hornsby introduced the two to Doctor Thomas Hildern, and they all shook hands.

"Now," said Hildern, leaning over the body. "I am normally a doctor in the field of science, but I learned what I did from the Followers. So, in this case I am as good of a medical doctor as any. I tried leave the body as undisturbed as possible for you gentlemen, as Mr. House was explicit that you must look at it. I did have to lean over it, move it around, for examination purposes, of course," he motioned to the body, and Jeremiah stepped over. Corporal Hornsby and Captain Curtis stood back and observed.

Jeremiah turned to the doctor. "Did you walk through the blood?" he asked.

"Well, yes, I -"

"You never, _ever _walk through blood at a crime scene. It messes with the chemical mixture. Evidence could be tainted," he cut the doctor off and turned to Boone, who had raised an eyebrow. "If Jay Barnes drilled one thing into my head when he was in the MP's, it was how to treat a crime scene," Boone nodded, and joined him at the body.

Carefully stepping over the body, straddling both it and the wide pool of blood, Jeremiah began his examination. It appeared Hsu had been shot twice, once in the thigh and another time in the chest, where Jeremiah guessed the heart would be.

"The body is still in the same place where Walter over there found it," Doctor Hildern told him. Jeremiah nodded.

"Cause of death, doc?" he asked.

"Well, the obvious, sir. Heart failure, due to one of the bullets hitting the heart," Jeremiah nodded once more, and stood over the body, gazing at it. He took his time, examining the body and the scene around it.

"What do you make of it, Jeremiah?" Boone asked. He sighed before standing up and walking back to the side of the body.

"There isn't much. The last scene held more evidence. However, we have two bullets here. Why would a killer shoot twice?" he asked.

Boone stared at the body for a minute before answering. "Maybe he ran? He shot the victim in the thigh to prevent him from escaping,"

"Very probably. One problem; the victim is facing away from safety, away from the base. Therefore, I think he tried to fight. He probably did something to deflect the gun, and the killer shot into his leg. The problem with that, is there aren't any signs of other struggle on the colonel's body,"

Boone shrugged.

Jeremiah turned to Captain Curtis. "Captain, who knew of the Colonel Hsu's early morning runs?"

Curtis turned to face him. "Sir, only myself and Lieutenant Boyd knew of his early excursions around the base,"

"And, if you don't mind my asking, but where were you early yesterday morning?"

"I was asleep, in my office, like on all other nights,"

"Well, and what of Lieutenant Boyd?"

"Sir, you can rest assure that no officer here would want to kill Colonel Hsu. Especially not with a ten millimeter pistol. Our boys would use something heavier," he told him.

Jeremiah nodded before turning to the Corporal and Hildern. "I'm done with the body. Take it away, clean it up, give it to the family. Captain, thank you for helping,"

Captain Curtis saluted. Jeremiah and Boone returned the favor. He walked off as Hildern and Corporal Hornsby picked up the body of Hsu and began carrying it towards the concourse. As they began walking away, a glimmer of light in the blood pool caught Jeremiah's eye. He looked at Boone, who had seen it as well. They both went to the pool and crouched, squinting at it.

Jeremiah picked it out of the blood, and wiped it on his shirt.

"A Denarius," Boone said. Jeremiah flipped the coin over in his hand.

"What do you make of that?" he asked his companion.

"I'm not sure," Boone replied. "The Legion is gone,"

"Yes, and that is why we are going to keep this little coin secret. We should go talk to Bryan and House. We should also give Jay Barnes a call when we do, he may be able to help us quite a bit," Jeremiah announced.

Boone nodded. "Something else on your mind?"

"Yes, something strange Captain Curtis said. 'Especially not with a ten millimeter pistol.'"

His friend raised an eyebrow. "What is strange about that?"

Jeremiah turned to face him. "I never asked about what caliber gun killed him. I doubt if Doctor Hildern knows yet,"

The two stood up, and Boone thought about what he said. "Come on," Jeremiah said as he began to walk towards the McCarran gate.

"We have work to do,"

* * *

**A/N: Well, there you go. The beginning of the real plot. I hope it isn't too extreme. And trust me, things will make start coming together soon. Now, I have to do some advertising. I will soon be publishing the beginning of my new story, "The Far Side of Paradise." It will take place a little in the Capital Wasteland, but for the majority across the entirety of the American Wasteland. I won't tell you details, but for those of you that enjoy series as well as this fic, then give it a chance! Anyway, leave a review telling me what you think. Cheers!**


	14. Arizona Killer

**A/N: I greatly apologize for the long delay. I think I'm what, two weeks late? I've been extremely busy, especially since I published my new fic, The Other Side of Paradise. Check it out! Thank you for putting up with my lateness, and I apologize in advance if this chapter sucks. **

* * *

**The Strip **

Cato Hostilus moved swiftly throughout the crowds that clustered the sidewalk. He paid them no mind; simply walked in and out of groups of people, south, towards Vault 21 and the NCR Embassy. His brown suit flapped in the evening breeze, the wind nipping at everyone's patience. The past week had been cold, and everyone hated it.

Tilting his fedora down over his eyes, Cato made it to the sidewalk opposite the embassy. There, he leaned against the Vault 21 door and waited. His target normally left around eight anyways, and that was not for another thirty minutes.

The Frumentarius never understood why the NCR didn't keep their officials on site, instead booking them presidential and penthouse suites in the casinos. The "High Roller" lifestyle was too exposed, which made them all the more easy to kill. Cato didn't mind; none of the Frumentarii did. They did what Vulpes told them to do, without question.

A drunk staggered up to him. "Hiya, buddy," the intoxicated man slurred. "You got some doll'rs on ya?"

Cato sighed, keeping his head down. The drunk was a lowlife gambler who probably had just lost his entire wallet at one of the casinos. "No, I do not," he replied, not lifting his eyes to the man.

The drunk lightly punched him in the shoulder. "Aw, come on pal! Just one doll'r, fer me? Hell, we'll drink t'gether!"

This time there came no reply. Cato stood still, staring at the door to the embassy. His Legion knife was stuck into his pants at the belt; a silenced .22 pistol lay in his jacket pocket. Neither would be worth taking out against a drunk.

After a few moments with no reply, the drunkard became agitated. He raised himself up from his slumped position and hit Cato again in the shoulder, this time hard. The punch forced Cato off of the door. He looked around and saw that, surprisingly, there was no big crowd around.

Just as the drunk was preparing himself for another punch, Cato threw his own. The heel of his hand landed on the tip of the man's nose, crushing it. Cato hadn't leaned all the way on his back leg, either. A simple lean did the trick, and the intoxicated was incapacitated. Rubbing his hand, Cato looked back at the embassy.

The ambassador was already walking towards the casinos. Cato did a double check; Crocker never left almost twenty-five minutes early. Sure enough, Ambassador Crocker's bigger-than-normal frame and balding head was walking toward the Ultra-Luxe. The dusty grey suit appeared even more dustier, if that was even possible.

As soon as Crocker turned the corner heading directly for the casino, Cato began tailing him. Staying far enough back so the ambassador could not see him, but close enough to keep his target in sight. Vulpes had drilled that into the Frumentarii the past year, training in Flagstaff. Even when the selected had traveled back to the Mojave, the training had continued.

Crocker reached the door to the Ultra-Luxe, and paused. Turning around, he stretched and surveyed the Strip. A few NCR soldiers saluted him, and he returned the gesture before entering the casino. Cato followed suit.

* * *

"So what do a colonel in the NCR military and the head of the Mojave Express have in common, and why would someone want to kill them?" Jay Barnes asked, setting down a glass of brandy. He sat across from Jeremiah and Boone, and the three sat together at a table in the Ultra-Luxe's gambling floor

Jeremiah and Boone looked at each other and shrugged. Barnes continued.

"Simple. They have nothing in common, which means they having something in common. The real question is, are they random killings, or are they connected somehow?"

"You don't just kill a high ranking NCR military official randomly. Nash may have been a seemingly random murder, but I don't think the guy who killed Hsu did it for sport," Jeremiah answered. Barnes nodded and took another sip from of his brandy.

The gambling hall was filled that night. Men and women in fancy suits and high roller clothes gambled at the various stations around the hall: roulette, blackjack, or the slots. As evening approached, the gamblers wandered off towards the Gourmand, the Ultra-Luxe's premier restaurant.

After leaving Camp McCarran, Boone and Jeremiah had immediately looked in on their friend Jay Barnes, who had been working out of his office inside the Las Vegas Boulevard Station. Barnes had begun working there when he purchased office space with his partner, John Crusoe. The two met in the NCR, though Crusoe knew neither Jeremiah nor Boone.

When asked about him, Barnes informed them of his abilities, "John Crusoe is an able private investigator, if not a bit eccentric. As of now, he is investigating a disappearance here at the Ultra-Luxe," Jeremiah had said he seemed satisfactory, and to fill him in later on.

Suddenly, Jeremiah looked up to see Ambassador Crocker enter the casino. He pointed this out to his comrades, and the group watched the man saunter towards the far end of the gambling hall, towards the back of the casino where the rooms and bathhouse were.

"Woa, woa," Boone said, when he turned back around. "Got another guy going after him. Just walked in," Barnes turned, and Jeremiah looked to where Boone spoke of. There they saw a man, around six two. He wore a full brown suit, and sported a beard. His closely-set eyes looked in the direction of where Crocker had walked, and he began to walk in that direction. As he went, his eyes darted around the gambling hall, giving off a vibe of paranoia. Jeremiah began to rise, keeping his eyes on the twitchy figure moving through the gambling hall.

Barnes sensed his wariness, and he held out his hand. "Easy there, pal. Don't pay him any mind, comes in here every night," he informed the two.

"Anything about him seem strange?" Jeremiah asked.

Barnes took a gulp of his drink, and shook his head.

* * *

Ambassador Crocker opened the door to his room on the top floor of the Ultra-Luxe. It was a suite, in all actuality, complete with a sitting room, kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom. He had stayed in the same room throughout his tour in Vegas, and had enjoyed every second of it. The high roller lifestyle suited him perfectly, and at the expense of the NCR.

He casually walked into the sitting room and turned on the jukebox. The sweet sounds of Lionel Hampton and his orchestra playing "Flying Home" wafted throughout the room. As he shrugged out of his suit jacket, a knock on the door surprised him.

The man standing on the other side surprised him even more. A young man, probably twenty-five, stood outside. He wore a fancy gambler's suit, and wore a fedora low down over his eyes. Gloves covered his hands, and around one he held a silenced .22 pistol. Crocker raised his hands.

"What's the meaning of this?" he asked.

The young man smiled. "Awe, true to Caesar," he recited. Ambassador Crocker was barely able to register a look of shock before two bullet were sent through his skull.

* * *

Under his breath, Jeremiah cursed his bad luck.

He stood alongside Barnes and Boone at a roulette table. After only three spins, he was already down twenty caps. Frustrated, he punched the table lightly.

"Five on red," he instructed the dealer.

As the dealer began to spin the wheel, a man rushed into the gambling hall. He wore the tuxedo of the White Glove Society. The man was yelling and waving his arms in frantic motions.

"Someone help me!" he screamed. The hall quieted as people turned to look at the man. "The ambassador has been murdered!"

People began to scream, and the crowd of gamblers began to disperse in panic. They drove towards the doors, fear rising in the casino.

Jeremiah squinted at the still-screaming man, and motioned for Boone and Barnes to follow him. The three slowly navigated the running people, and made their way towards the man.

"Please, sirs," he pleaded when they approached. "You must help!"

"What's your name, son?" Jeremiah asked.

"Chauncey, sir!"

"Yes, Chauncey, please take us to the ambassador,"

The young man turned and began running down the hall, the three in close pursuit. They followed Chauncey to the elevators, and they piled in. Riding up to the top floor, Chauncey gave them the information.

"I was going room to room in the suites, for room services and other accommodations," he explained. "I opened his door and there he was, laying on the floor just inside. He had two bullet holes in his head," he trailed off.

Boone stopped him. "It's okay, kid. We'll take it from here,"

The elevator doors opened, and Chauncey led them across plush blue carpet to what Jeremiah guessed was the Presidential Suite of the house. The suite was at the end of the hall, and expanded across the end of the building, on both sides. Upon reaching the door, Chauncey stopped. The three men stepped around him to the door, and opened it.

Ambassador Crocker lay on the floor directly inside, dead. Sure enough, two bullet holes gruesomely discolored the man's forehead. The wounds had bled over onto the blue carpet, enough that a pool surrounded Crocker's head. Looking around, Jeremiah noted that the living room of the suite appeared untouched.

"Chauncey," he called outside to the young man, "how many rooms are in this suite?"

"Six, sir," he replied. His black forehead glistened with sweat, and he appeared nauseous. "Two bedrooms, a sitting room, kitchen, bathroom, and an office,"

Jeremiah nodded, and turned to his companions. "Jay, examine the body for me. Boone, you look around his bedroom. I'll check the office," the two nodded, and went about their tasks.

Cautiously, Jeremiah walked through the suite. He walked down a small hallway, past the bathroom and smaller bedroom. Across from the master bedroom was the office.

It was a small, square room. Next to the door was a bookshelf, with various Pre-War volumes packed close together. A desk sat against the right wall, and on it a lamp and a stack of papers sat. Parallel to the door a set of windows looked out over the Strip. Jeremiah hardly noticed, however. He only noticed the state the room was in.

Someone had been in the room recently. Books from the shelf lay open on the floor, and the drawers in the desk were open, their contents hastily searched.

"_Shit," _Jeremiah whispered. He began to sift through the ransacked room. The files and other items were very random; most had to do with headline news in the NCR. Some were of how San Francisco was being reformed, and how many thought the capital would soon be moved there. Arroyo prospered still, as did Shady Sands. President Kimball was expected to make a visit to New Vegas, and talk annexation with Mr. House.

Suddenly, Jay Barnes walked into the room. "Hot damn, this place is a mess," Jeremiah turned to face him. Barnes did not wait for a reply. "Body is still warm. I'd say Chauncey just missed our man. Could've been here while he was doing this. Maybe five or ten minutes ago."

Jeremiah nodded, thinking the situation over in his head. The paranoid man who followed Crocker into the casino must be the killer. But how did he get away? "Go call the NCR. Get the Military Police here from McCarran, and get them here fast." he ordered.

From across the hall, Boone's voice shouted, "Jeremiah, Jay, get in here!"

The two walked out of the office and into the master bedroom. The room was luxurious; a large bed dominated the far wall, next to a closet. An armoire sat up against the wall by the door. Boone stood amongst the furniture, staring at an open door that led onto a balcony. Barnes followed Jeremiah onto the balcony after Boone gestured for them to step outside.

This balcony occupied the opposite side from the office one. The view from this side was of the Mojave, whereas the other was of the Strip. As they stepped outside, the cool night air swept past. The neon glow of Vegas cut into the night sky, and the three looked out over the eastern Mojave, towards Camp Golf and Lake Mead.

Jeremiah paid no attention to the view, however. He was more concerned with the escape route of his killer.

Attached to the railing of the balcony was a metal carabiner. On one end was thick climbing rope, which ultimately led down to the earth floor, fifteen stories below.

"Well," Jeremiah mumbled, "now I know," Boone and Barnes looked at him puzzled, but then returned to their own thoughts.

Quickly, Jeremiah began pulling the rope upwards.

"What are you doing?" Boone asked him, confused.

"I'm going after him, of course," Jeremiah answered.

Jay snorted. "Why don't you just wait until I go get the NCR?"

"You seem to be taking a long time in doing so, and plus he will be long gone when they arrive,"

Realizing this was his cue to leave, Barnes ran out of the suite. Boone watched as Jeremiah pulled the rope up, unsure of what to do.

When the rope reached the top, Jeremiah's heart sank. On the other end of the climbing rope was another carabiner, where a harness had been. Whoever had used this had taken the harness, but failed to take the carabiner.

"What now?" Boone asked. Jeremiah looked around. Lining the edge of the balcony were plants. Nothing useful, so he looked at himself. His eyes landed on the belt loops of his slacks.

Grinning, Jeremiah removed his belt, curved it around himself so he sat in it, and clipped it to the carabiner. He fed the belt through itself and tightened it, and clipped the carabiner on one of his belt loops. Boone watched, grimly, though his face betrayed no emotion.

Jeremiah untangled the rope, and wound it around his hand. Finally, he stepped onto the railing and lowered himself so that he was kneeling on it, facing towards Boone and the suite.

"What should I do, then?" Boone asked.

"Go to the Lucky 38, and call a meeting with Bryan, House, and some NCR officials. General Oliver, Colonel Moore, whoever. I'll meet you there in an hour."

Boone nodded gravely. Jeremiah took a gulp of air, closed his eyes, and lowered himself from the balcony.

Immediately he began swinging. His initial fall had launched him towards the casino, and he just barely stuck his foot out to strike the building. The fall had caused whiplash, and fear had caused him to grip the rope hard, making his descent slow. Disoriented, he regained his composure and slowly lowered himself. Looking up, he saw Boone peering over the balcony. Jeremiah waved him away. Slowly, he lowered himself to the earth.

In three minutes, landed in the dirt and unhooked himself. He had set himself down in an alley behind the Ultra Luxe, between the building and the Vegas wall. To his sides were the casino and wall, dumpsters and makeshift tents lined both. In front of him was a pathway which led back around to the casino. Behind him was another path that led around to the NCR Embassy and Vault 21.

The alley was dark, so Jeremiah flipped on his Pip-Boy light and surveyed his surroundings. In the dust, he saw the faint shapes of footprints. There were masculine, and appeared big and strong. Cautiously, he crept forward in a crouch so he could see the prints. The dirt crunched under his dress shoes; he rolled his eyes at them. Not only would they give him away, but he would have to buff and polish them later.

As he approached the corner of the casino, two dumpsters entered the light. When the light hit them, three men stepped out. They stood three abreast, across the alleyway.

"Hey there pal," the one in the middle, the biggest, said to Jeremiah. "Where you creeping off to?"

Jeremiah paused, and stood up. The men were thugs, or they appeared to be. They wore tattered leather clothing, and the center man wore a brown felt fedora. Jeremiah remained quiet.

"That's what I thought," the man said. The two on his side began to close around Jeremiah's.

"You can tell your three friends farther back to come out," Jeremiah announced flatly. "They aren't that slick."

The big man appeared surprised, and snapped. Behind him, Jeremiah heard three sets of heavy footsteps. A look behind him confirmed that three more thugs had moved in.

"The man in the brown suit hire you? Or did you already work for him?" Jeremiah asked. "Because, I believe that is his hat, correct?" He smirked. The big man looked at the hat, his composure broken. A second later, he regained it.

"I don't think you are in any position to ask any questions, pal," he sneered.

Jeremiah shrugged. "Might as well ask them now, since you won't be in any position to answer them later."

"Well fellas, we have a smart-ass on our hands! The man said we'd have a handful," This confirmed Jeremiah's suspicions, these were hired thugs, probably hired when the killer made his getaway. The gang laughed at their leader's joke, but only for a second. "Take his gun," he ordered.

Before the words were out of his mouth, Jeremiah reached into his jacket and retrieved the 12.7 mm handgun he bought at the Gun Runners' earlier in the day. In one swift motion he brought it out, ejected the magazine, and threw it at the leader's feet.

"Don't need one," he snarled. The big man looked at him, his mouth gaping, and an eyebrow raised.

Slowly, six-man thug team lurched forward. The leader was within five feet of Jeremiah when he made his move. Surprisingly, it was fast. He pulled out a gun, handgun, Jeremiah noticed. What he didn't notice was the make, model, or anything specific about it. Everything happened very fast.

The leader whipped the gun up, arms stretched straight. As soon as he saw him move, Jeremiah acted. He leaned back, and flung a vicious kick straight up towards the gun. A simple bicycle kick, it slammed into the man's hand, causing the gun to fly in the air.

Landing on the back of his shoulder, Jeremiah saw, upside down, another thug charged him. He rolled over onto his stomach and launched himself upwards. He ran towards the thug, a threw an elbow at the man's face. Jeremiah's elbow connected with his nose, breaking it with a sickening crunch. The thug crumpled. Behind him, the leader rushed. Jeremiah lowered his shoulder and thrust it into the man's gut. The big man grunted as Jeremiah wrapped his arms around him, held him away, and issued him a gnarly headbutt. He fell.

A lull in the fight followed. Four thugs stood amazed at the smart-ass' skills. So, two charged him at once.

One came from the front, the other behind. The man charging from the front threw a right hook which Jeremiah grabbed the wrist of. He threw two solid punches to the man's elbow, breaking the arm. Spinning, he twirled the thug around and threw him at his counterpart. The two collided and fell. As they lay on the ground, Jeremiah walked to the one who had no broken bones. He lifted a foot, and brought the sharp heel of a dress shoe down on the man's nose. Now, four lay groaning on the ground.

The last two, not wanting to end up like their fallen comrades, ran.

Jeremiah smiled, reached and took the killer's hat from the leader, replaced his pistol in his jacket, and continued to the crowds of Vegas.

He walked quickly to the corner of the Ultra-Luxe, and rounded the corner. At this time of night, the crowds were thinning. Jeremiah scanned the people who were there; looking for men with brown suits and no hat. He noticed a man of such description walking into Gomorrah, Sin City's center for vice and sin; Vegas' den for sex, gambling, and drugs, run by merciless mobsters known as the Omertas.

Needless to say, Gomorrah lived up to its surname.

Jeremiah quickly navigated the streets of Vegas, and made his way into the casino. Immediately the smell of cheap booze and sex entered his nostrils. He wrinkled his nose at the smell.

He ignored the receptionist in the foyer. As he passed her, he retrieved his 12.7mm pistol from his jacket, tossed it to her, and held up his hands to signal he was unarmed. Venturing into the wide gambling hall, he searched until he found his target: he was stationed at a blackjack table, holding an alcoholic beverage.

Casually walking over, Jeremiah held the man's hat in one hand, and tapped the man on the shoulder in the other. Annoyed, the man turned around.

The first thing the killer noticed about Jeremiah was the large amount of dust on his slacks and shoes. The second thing was the man himself: the courier. His eyes opened wider, and his nostrils flared, especially when his eyes centered on his hat.

Jeremiah studied the man. They were both roughly the same height, Jeremiah perhaps a bit taller. The man had more muscle mass, he had obviously been through some sort of training. Green eyes locked with his brown, and the two held each other's gazes for awhile. Both knew who each other was, they simply waited for the other to make a move.

"Not to bother, sir, but you left your hat at the Ultra-Luxe, I'm returning it to you," Jeremiah nonchalantly explained. The man nodded.

"Thank you, sir," he reached for his hat, grabbed it, and replaced it on his head. Jeremiah gave a short bow, and walked away. He had gathered all he need to know. The man's face would not be forgotten.

* * *

**Unknown **

The next day, Cato Hostilus barged into the Frumentarii's safe house. Angrily, he slammed the brown fedora onto the table where every Frumentarius was supposed to meet. Vulpes Inculta glared at him from behind his black eye shield. The wolf's head he wore seemed to make him a god among men.

"Something to report, Cato?" Inculta asked.

"The profligate known as 'Courier,' saw me. I believe he is onto us," he quickly told of his mission the previous day; how he killed the ambassador, escaped, gave the thug his hat for payment, and then of how the courier followed him and returned the hat.

Inculta stroked his chin for a moment. "This is a problem indeed..." he mused. "However, we must not become disoriented. We must simply take care of Jeremiah Winters in addition to our plans for the Mojave. Cato, I will assign you to that. Follow him, learn his movements, and then kill him. For the rest of you, I happily inform you that Caesar is pleased with our results thus far. He is currently pulling strings with the council in Flagstaff, and he is preparing for his return. And now that our fried Cato has the first piece to our puzzle, we may now begin with Stage Two of our operation. Cato, please place the device on the table," he ordered.

Cato took a small device from his jacket pocket, and handling with extreme care, placed it on the table. The room gasped.

The device was an NCR military-issue laser detonator, designed for detonating nuclear warheads.

* * *

**Lucky 38 **

Jeremiah stood alongside Craig Boone, Jay Barnes, and Bryan O'Neil in the cocktail lounge of the Lucky 38. The four nervously awaited the arrival of their guests: Mr. Robert House, General Lee Oliver, Chief Hanlon, and Colonel Cassandra Moore. They were set to hold the first meeting to discuss the recent happenings in the Mojave.

The return of Jeremiah to the Lucky 38 had been both awkward and exciting. Bryan had, surprisingly, warmly shaken his hand and welcomed him. Mr. House, on the other hand, coldly welcome Jeremiah and his comrades, and sent the meeting to the cocktail lounge, where he would preside in some form.

Now, Jeremiah sat talking to his three friends in comfy armchairs and drinking two-hundred year old wine. Jay Barnes was telling war stories, and Bryan was intently listening though Boone and Jeremiah knew the story to be false.

Suddenly, the elevator dinged. The four quieted, facing the elevator. As the doors opened they stood to greet their guests. However, the person who walked out was not who they were expecting. It was someone Jeremiah knew from dreams, and someone he hoped he would never meet.

The man walked until he stood looking down into the lounge at the four men. He wore a SWAT combat vest over a white collared shirt. Tattered jeans covered his legs, and white bandages covered every inch of exposed skin. Piercing blue eyes cut through Jeremiah's very heart. He didn't know whether to scream or run. Either way could mean certain death.

Slowly, Joshua Graham descended the stairs to the cocktail lounge.


	15. No End in Sight

**Lucky 38 **

Jeremiah stood speechless as Graham walked toward him. Boone had taken off his sunglasses, showing that he meant business. Bryan and Barnes both stood back, gaping.

"Hello, Jeremiah," Joshua Graham spoke, his deep smooth voice filling the room. The light from the early afternoon sun shone through the wide windows of the Lucky 38 cocktail lounge, lighting up his blue eyes. Though his clothes were dusty and grimy, the bandages on his exposed skin was clean. Jeremiah guessed he cleaned them often.

"Jeremiah," Bryan stuttered, "you know this guy?"

Boone turned and gazed in Jeremiah's direction. Joshua stood before them all. He was not very impressive; he stood near six two, and showed no muscle definition. Jeremiah noted the .45 caliber pistol that was in his pants on the side, a gun Graham could most likely use with deadly accuracy.

"Gentlemen," Jeremiah choked out, "meet the Malpais Legate; the Burned Man; or simply Joshua Graham."

To his right, Boone growled. Joshua held out a hand.

"Be at ease, for I do not come here bearing Caesar's sign. I come here because the time of tribulation is ahead, and my time of return was, alas, long overdue."

Jay Barnes fumbled for words. "Caesar killed you...set you ablaze, threw you into the canyon..."

"Indeed. However, Caesar did not kill me. He attempted to use me as an example to his men, to prove his brute strength. He knew that I would realize his flaws, and use them to my advantage. I did not die because it was not my time. And, God was watching."

"Then why leave?" Jeremiah rebutted. "Why not go to the NCR?"

Joshua scoffed. "The NCR and President Kimball are as corrupt and guilty as Caesar is. In their time, they too shall fall in the Mojave. Although, Caesar must be the first to fall."

Looking around, Jeremiah sensed the aura of shock, and of fear, linger in the air. Bryan and Boone had yet to speak. Barnes appeared visibly confused, as if trying to make sense of the whole ordeal. To him, it seemed quite impossible. To be set on fire and tossed into the Grand Canyon? It would normally mean certain death. However, as he looked at Joshua's bandaged face and into his sharp blue eyes, he doubted that anything could kill this man.

It seemed to Jeremiah that Graham was a fortress, an impenetrable stronghold.

"So," Boone finally spoke, his voice low. "Where did you go?"

Joshua motioned for the four to sit at a nearby table. Jeremiah ran to the bar, grabbed a bottle of wine, and returned. As he poured, Joshua declined. Instead, he reached into a small knapsack and retrieved a tin canteen. He took small sips as he spoke.

"After my supposed "execution," I trekked for three months, heading north. I ventured to the place of my youth, New Canaan. There, I prospered. I reverted to my original ways as a missionary. However, Caesar knew I was alive. Just last year, 2281, he convoys to the White Legs, a brutal tribe in the area around New Canaan. He ordered them to attack the settlement. Though they wiped out most of the town and its residents, I fled to Zion Canyon with another missionary named Daniel. We lived among the lesser tribes of Zion, barely holding our own against the White Legs. Numerous times Caesar sent assassins to Zion, and numerous times they were cut down."

Graham had the four completely engrossed, even Boone, though he appeared to have some doubts. He had not warmed up to their new guest.

"At the beginning of this year, following the Second Battle of Hoover Dam, Daniel decided to take the tribes of Zion and leave. The White Legs were growing, and becoming an ever-threatening danger. He invited me to join them, but I knew, with Caesar's defeat, that my time had come to return. I declined his offer and began my journey to the Mojave. I joined with a Happy Trails caravan halfway here, and I rode with them until I saw the lights of Vegas."

"Didn't they know who you were?" Boone asked.

Joshua shook his head. "They were afraid by my appearance, but I kept quiet, barely speaking to anyone. None of the caravaneers asked any questions, and I never offered any answers when they did." Graham spoke slowly, wasting no time in relaying his story to them. "Almost as soon as we crossed into the Mojave, Caesar's spies were upon us. Caesar, angry from his previous assassins having failed, sent Vulpes Inculta to lead some of his high-trained Frumentarii to kill me. Almost like what the NCR tried nearly six years ago. You remember, Jeremiah?" He looked in Jeremiah's direction.

Jeremiah sat staring at him. To himself, he wondered how Joshua knew about that. No one knew. He knew, Boone knew, as well as three others. On his side, Boone raised his eyebrows behind his sunglasses and looked to Jeremiah. He looked as surprised as Jeremiah felt. No one spoke, and slowly Joshua nodded.

"I know just as much about that as you do. But, that doesn't matter now. The Frumentarii ambushed us, killed the people I was traveling with. They weren't good enough, however. Even with Inculta accompanying them. In all, there were five of them. I took three of them. I caught the fourth. I had Vulpes in my sights, but I let him go. A message to Caesar. A warning."

"And the fourth?" Jeremiah asked.

Though the bandages prevented them from seeing his face, the four thought that Graham was smiling. "I asked him questions, and he gave me answers. Not all, but enough. He said that before the second battle of Hoover Dam, Caesar called in Vulpes Inculta. He gave strict orders; orders to begin training the Frumentarii harder than ever before. That was all Inculta told his men. After the battle, when the Legion retreated, the Frumentarii were ordered by Caesar to carry out a mission of extreme importance. A mission that includes the killing of many key figures, and other preliminary tasks."

Jay Barnes' head shot up. "'Preliminary'? There is more?"

"Indeed. Of that I do not know," Graham said gravely. Around him, the four men sat contemplating his words. They still were trying to get over the shock of the man himself appearing in Vegas. Jeremiah spoke up.

"So, what now?" he asked.

"I am guessing that you were waiting on some officials? NCR, perhaps?"

"Oliver, Moore, and Hanlon," he informed.

"Meet with them, then. I am staying, however. My time in hiding is done, and I have made my return. The Legion is dead to me, and they will remain so. The NCR, however incompetent, I shall work with. You, Jeremiah, must be smart. Do not let your patriotism override your limits. Play on your terms, and do not let a fool like Lee Oliver control you."

Jeremiah went over Joshua's words in his mind, and would until the end of this campaign was upon him. The words were cryptic almost. They made him cringe. The Burned Man himself was unwavering. The piercing blue eyes shone from the bandages, cutting a hole straight everything they looked at. In them, Jeremiah sought sanctuary. Faintly, he felt safe around Joshua.

"Will you stay for the meeting?" he asked. Graham nodded. Boone nudged Jeremiah, and nodded towards the side wall. The two stood from their seats and walked away so they could not be heard. Boone turned, his back to Joshua.

"You trust this guy? He's ex-Legion, the damn Malpais Legate at that," he sneered.

Jeremiah's eyes darted from Boone in front of him to Joshua sitting in front of Barnes and Bryan. His mind thought of all the possibilities, went through all the possible scenarios. He reviewed Graham's story.

"What he said makes sense. He probably hates the Legion. Look at him, he wears their mark every day. Those bandages signify more than just a wound, Craig. The Legion changed his life."

"Yeah? They changed mine too, in case you remember," Boone said with an edge to his voice. The two stood and looked at each other.

"Something you want to tell me? About Carla?" Jeremiah asked, hopeful his friend was ready to explain himself.

Boone's composure faltered. He hesitated, and walked over to the glass windows that revealed Vegas. He removed his sunglasses as he leaned on a pane; bit the stem; looked out over the Strip. It was to be a beautiful day, the early morning sun just now was creeping over the eastern horizon. Boone remained silent, deep in thought. Jeremiah wondered what was happening in his head. He wondered what happened to his friend. After Bitter Springs even he had wondered. That experience in itself had changed him. Boone's complexion was hard, his disposition growing ever agitated. Finally, he spoke.

"No. You know better than to ask me that. You should know that part of my life is over. It was over the minute she died. Go on, listen to him, Jeremiah. I'd be wary if I were you," Boone stepped closer to Jeremiah, pointing at him with his sunglasses. "I don't trust him, I don't imagine I ever will. I'll stick with you even so, but mark my words I will not bury you." And with those words, he stormed towards the bar.

Shrugging in a fit of frustration, Jeremiah rejoined Joshua at the chairs. Barnes and Bryan were listening intently to Joshua as he talked about military tactics, how the Legion's differed from the NCR. Jeremiah paid no attention to their conversation. His mind wandered to Boone, and his wife. What happened that made him so angry? He knew it was a barrier in the two's friendship, he hoped it wouldn't carry over into their work.

Suddenly, the elevator dinged. Joshua's voice died away as everyone looked toward the elevator doors. At the bar, Boone swallowed a shot of whiskey and turned on his stool.

The doors opened, and out walked five figures. Three were the NCR's top military leaders: General Lee Oliver, Colonel Cassandra Moore, and the Ranger Chief Hanlon. They brought two soldiers, as guards presumably. Jeremiah's group stood, all except Joshua. He remained sitting and drinking, having hardly looked up when the doors opened.

General Oliver immediately acknowledged Bryan. "Hello again, Bryan. It's a pleasure to work with you again."

"Likewise, General," Bryan answered. Compared to the general, he seemed a dwarf in every regard. Then again, Bryan was barely twenty.

Bryan quickly introduced him to Jeremiah, Barnes, and Boone. He paused when his eyes landed on Joshua's bandages. Oliver looked at him questioningly.

Jeremiah spoke for him. "General Oliver, meet Joshua Graham."

Oliver's eyes went wide, and a gasp, barely audible, escaped his lips. Colonel Moore staggered back, and Chief Hanlon seemed to stiffen some. Oliver looked to Bryan for confirmation. He got it.

"What - what is the meaning of this?" he demanded. "Have you brought me here to -"

"The meaning here, _General, _is to hold a council, unless I am mistaken," Joshua cut him off as he turned to face the confused military man. "I will not harm you, I have no intention of it. If I had any urge to inflict injury or death upon you, I guarantee you would already be in such condition." Joshua's baritone drifted lingered in the air, leaving a hint of competition between the two.

"Well then," Oliver stumbled, regaining his composure. He looked at Jeremiah, and then to Bryan. "Is he staying?"

Bryan shrugged. "Unless you have an objection, sir. He knows Caesar better than any of us do."

Jeremiah agreed. He hadn't thought of that. At the bar, Boone gave a slight shake of his head, and reached for another drink.

"Will Mr. House be joining us?" Colonel Moore asked as herself and Chief Hanlon joined the group.

"Mr. House is busy at the moment," Bryan informed them. "He has entrusted us with the responsibility of handling the situation."

"I see. If there are no other matters that should be attended to, I say we begin," General Oliver announced.

The group, excluding the two NCR soldiers who remained at the elevator, moved off to a space Bryan had cleared. He had called for a wide circular table, chairs for each, as well as copied data that Jeremiah and his team had gathered.

As they sat, General Oliver spoke directly to Jeremiah. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

Jeremiah took the seat next to him. "Other than serving within First Recon, no other occurrence comes to mind, sir."

"Are you sure? It seems as though I remember you from something. An NCR exercise perhaps?" The general sounded as if he was playing at something, and it took Jeremiah a second to catch on.

"Sir, I was on the team for Operation Backwood, if that is what you mean,"

Oliver feigned surprise. "Ah, yes, Backwood. That was what, '78?" Jeremiah nodded. "You must have been one of the new trainees I hand selected.. I'm guessing, since you said you were Recon, you went through the preliminary Ranger training course?"

"Yes, sir, you selected me for the team after I finished Marksman School," Jeremiah informed him.

General Oliver nodded, thinking to himself. Jeremiah looked to Boone a few chairs down, raising his eyebrows. Boone shrugged. That was the second time somebody mentioned an NCR black operation.

"Down to brass tacks," Bryan said, beginning the official meeting. "Mr. House wants this problem cleared up, and he wants it done fast. First thing is first, we need to clarify who is doing this. Joshua Graham here suggests that it is Caesar's Frumentarii."

Colonel Moore snorted. "Impossible. We haven't heard a single word from Caesar since Hoover Dam. Why would they show up again? Besides, the Frumentarii are nothing, they may as well send their recruits."

"I agree," Oliver said. "It sounds much more like anti-NCR extremists. Maybe an anarchy group we haven't heard of."

Jeremiah shook his head. "No, the killing is too clean. An anarchist wouldn't bother with tidiness. He would prefer to make a big scene, incredible loss of life, structural damage. He wouldn't limit himself to three assassinations."

"Maybe instead of an anarchy group, it's a revolutionist group?" Barnes quipped. "They would want to strike out at the NCR and the Mojave's main leaders. Their goal would be to weaken our base before bringing out their heavy artillery."

Chief Hanlon spoke next. His voice was old and gruff, speaking through many years of military experience. "If only it were that simple. To have a revolution, one needs funds. There is not a single group of people that would fund a people-led revolt against a government that is both strong and kind. Have you thought of a lone wolf? A single assassin?"

His commanding officer waved him off. "No. The first two killings were too close together. Hours apart. He could not have been in Primm and then infiltrated McCarran that quickly. No, they operate in groups, whoever they are."

"I know one of them," Jeremiah declared. All eyes immediately went to him. He relayed the story of the night of Ambassador Crocker's death, and how he returned the hat to the killer.

"Why didn't you arrest him?" General Oliver demanded. He struck his fist on the table.

"I wasn't sure," Jeremiah told him. "I wasn't a hundred percent. I couldn't bring him in on murder charges like that. The evidence didn't stack up."

"Well, could you identify him?" Joshua asked, leaning forward. His eyes gleamed in the light.

"Not by name. If I saw a picture, yes."

General Oliver motioned for one of the guards. "Get me all files on criminals in the Mojave. Also bring all suspected extremist group files, as well as the files on the Legion Frumentarii," he commanded. The soldier nodded and ran into the elevator.

* * *

**Camp McCarran **

"Very well, Picus. You are cleared by the Wolf-Mother to begin the second phase. Proceed with extreme caution, out," the HAM radio's static intensified as the other line clicked off. Captain Ronald Curtis placed the headset down and looked out over the military base.

The sun was reaching its zenith; midday was upon them. The abandoned control tower sat very alone on the wall, and Curtis knew he would not be disturbed. Silently, he retrieved his briefcase from under the desk in front of him. Opening it, he surveyed the contents.

A C4 plastic explosive sat on top of another in the center. Surrounding the explosives was a special mix of gunpowder; one that Vulpes Inculta had instructed Legion chemists to manufacture themselves. The specialty of the gunpowder was not only to be used in their weapons, but it was given a special property: it reacted highly (and violently) with hydrochloric acid.

In the upper lid of the briefcase was a large vial, sewn into the lining of the case. Once he flipped a switch on the lock, Curtis knew the vial would begin to feed the acid into the bottom lid, and within a matter of minutes the gunpowder would explode alongside the C4. Content, Curtis closed the briefcase, held it, and began making his way down the stairs of the control tower.

As he stepped outside, the warm May air bathed him. He basked for a few seconds, took a deep breath, and walked towards the terminal building. A soldier opened the garage door inside for the captain, who immediately turned left upon entering. He walked up a staircase to the upper level, and rounded a corner. Passing two soldiers, he entered the monorail concourse.

The NCR monorail was the only direct link between McCarran and the Strip. The only other way to enter Vegas was through Freeside, and only NCR personnel could ride the monorail. Today, it was full. Captain Curtis had to squeeze on, and thankfully a lowly private gave up his seat. Curtis laid his briefcase on the floorboard beside his seat. The train was scheduled to leave in two minutes. Curtis clicked the mechanism on the lock. Inside, hydrochloric acid began trickling through a tube towards the gunpowder.

With a minute left before the train departed, Curtis suddenly remembered something in his office. He hurried off the train, and dashed to his office.

He arrived just in time to watch the train depart.

* * *

**Lucky 38 **

"I'll be damned," General Oliver whispered as he listened to Jeremiah, who was busy reading the file on a Frumentarius.

"His name is Cato Hostilus. He has been in the Legion since he was sixteen, so going on nine years. During the Legion wars, he served as the Frumentarii that patrolled areas directly west of the Colorado River, around places like Novac and Nelson. That's all you have on him," Jeremiah informed the table.

General Oliver began shaking his head. Colonel Moore looked sick, and Chief Hanlon looked distant. "What does it mean?" the chief Ranger mumbled, barely audible.

"It means," Joshua said, leaning forward on his elbows. "Caesar is planning something. That, we don't know. We have a starting point, however. The Frumentarii are behind the assassinations."

The table became quiet, grim with the realization that the Legion was not totally gone. They did not remain in that state for long, on account of the giant explosion.

The sound ripped through the quiet, still air. It overpowered all noise levetating from the Strip below. A giant fireball rose over the monorail track directly behind the Las Vegas Boulevard Police Station, where it was scheduled to arrive in thirty seconds. The unmistakeable screech of metal tore the atmosphere as the track broke and the cars not directly destroyed plunged off of the rail and towards the wasteland dirt.

The group in the Lucky 38 surveyed the scene from high above, and watched in horror as people screamed, running for the safety of the casinos. Burning figures emerged from the fireball that had been the NCR monorail. Many ran around fully engulfed in flames. Some attempted to roll on the ground, but most ended up dead, still burning.

NCR soldiers rushed from the LVB Police Station, carrying fire hoses and gurneys. They quickly showered the burning wreckage, and the fire was abated. Turning their attention to the people, the soldiers hosed and lifted bodies from the ground, and helped injured passengers to the walls of Vegas. They lifted people onto the LVB concourse. A medical truck arrived from Camp McCarran. Many gamblers and other Vegas citizens watched in awe, as many had never seen an operating vehicle before.

Though the explosion lasted only a few seconds, the carnage continued for hours. The burning hulk of the monorail would take nearly five hours to completely cool down enough for NCR teams to pick the wreckage over. Out of 96 passengers, 42 lay dead on the scene, and many would die later from burns and other traumatic injuries.

The group in the Lucky 38 watched in horrible fascination at the scene below. As fire lit up his face, Jeremiah turned to General Oliver.

"Something must be done. And it must be done very fast," he slowly said. Behind him, Joshua Graham watched, with fire in his eyes, the work of his old allegiance.


	16. Intelligence

**The Strip **

The wreckage surrounding the NCR monorail lay strewn around the outer walls of the Strip. Black, burning, and broken, they lay in twisted heaps. Flames sporadically lit up in random spots, keeping the soldiers and teams cautious. Inside the walls, the concourse of the Las Vegas Boulevard Station lay damaged as well, from pieces of monorail thrown by the explosion. The time was one hour after the explosion; noon.

The NCR response time had been astounding; rescue crews had been on the scene immediately. They worked hard, fighting the flames and wreckage to recover survivors. Soldiers and even civilians helped move cooled wreckage, and picked around ground zero.

Smoke and soot filled the air, causing Jeremiah to wrinkle his nose. Waving some smoke away from his face, he led Joshua and Boone through the destruction. Sent by the NCR brass, who went instead to Camp McCarran to meet with their officers. General Oliver took Jay Barnes, whom he wanted to meet with his old military police unit. Bryan stayed to inform Mr. House, and had told Jeremiah to meet him at Camp McCarran.

Joshua looked at the damage and rescue crews grimly. "The men may as well go home. Those that survived the blast and lie under the rubble have more than certainly burned to death by the hot metal," he mumbled. Jeremiah knew he was right; he could not accept the fact that it was the Legion behind the attacks. Even though he thought it may be, he could not bring himself to believe in it. However, it suddenly dawned on him that, though Joshua could turn to be a very dangerous man, he could just as well be an important asset to the entire operation.

A figure walked towards the group through the smoky haze. He was dressed in the uniform of an NCR officer; the beret on his head designated him as the rank of Captain.

Jeremiah hailed him. "Captain Curtis, it is a pleasure to see you again, if it is under these premises."

Curtis nodded respectfully. "Likewise, Staff Sergeant. I see you have brought Lieutenant Boone along with you...and who is your other friend?" he asked, nodding toward Joshua. He stepped close enough to look at him clearly, but kept his distance all the same.

"Captain Curtis, may I introduce Joshua Graham," Jeremiah said.

Curtis' eyes flew open, and he lurched backwards. His hand reached for a pistol at his belt, and he raised it. Jeremiah saw it was a ten millimeter. Noted. Graham did not flinch. He simply pulled his own weapon, a .45 pistol. The two stood facing each other; enemies of old, suddenly pushed into battle again.

Jeremiah stood, nervous. He did not know whether or not either of the two would shoot, or if they would stand staring each other down. Beside him, Boone watched in frustration. Jeremiah guessed why; his time was being wasted, too.

"We should have killed you a long time ago," Curtis growled. The captain was tense. His words carried over the area. Jeremiah realized the sound of the work crews had stopped. Everyone was staring at the standoff.

"Who?" Joshua asked, his voice deep and resonating. "The NCR? Or _Caesar?_" He sneered the name like a disease.

"Caesar did us a favor when he threw you into the canyon. You were lucky with him. Our labor camps are nothing like him. You should see how our prisoners treat each other, dog." Curtis pronounced his words through clenched teeth. Jeremiah wondered what set him off about Joshua.

"Don't sound so smug, Picus. I know your secrets. I know all about you," Curtis' composure faltered. Jeremiah wondered what "secrets" Joshua spoke of. What was "Picus?"

The two stood five feet apart. They seemed to be nearly growling at each other. Suddenly, Boone spoke.

"Listen here, and listen well. I don't care about the history between you two. I really don't give a damn," Boone was standing off to the side, a bit in front of Jeremiah. His rifle was raised, and he kept switching it between the two. "But right now, you two's bitching is _really _starting to piss me off. Now, stop wasting my time, put your sidearms away, and fucking _get over it." _

Curtis and Joshua both looked at Boone, and his rifle, in turn. Unsteady, they both looked at their pistols. Slowly, they lowered them.

"Thank you," Boone growled before lowering his own weapon. Behind him, Jeremiah smiled.

* * *

**Camp McCarran**

Captain Curtis whisked the group away from the wreckage of the monorail and straight to Camp McCarran. Leading them through the airport grounds, he led them towards a tent Jeremiah knew all too well: First Recon.

The Recon tent was on the outer edge of tents that covered the courtyard inside the walls. It sat against the fifty or so yards of no-man's land that was in between the tent-line and the outer walls. The tents numbered in the hundreds and were all the same olive-drab green color. The air smelled rank of body odor mixed with gunpowder and greases.

As they approached, a small, burly man stepped out of the Recon tent. This was Colonel Dhatri; though when Jeremiah had known him, he had been a Major. Following Colonel James Hsu's assassination, General Oliver had promoted Dhatri to Colonel. Jeremiah eyed Dhatri oddly. Though of short height, his build was not small. His dark, round face was nearly half covered by a thick black beard. A green beret sat on his head. He looked genuinely fatigued, most likely on account of his recent promotion.

"Sergeant Winters," Colonel Dhatri extended his hand. "It has been a while."

"Indeed, Colonel. Is General Oliver expecting us?" Dhatri nodded towards the terminal building.

"He should be in his office, Jeremiah. Major Curtis will escort you inside."

With a nod from the major, Jeremiah followed him towards the airport terminal. Boone and Joshua each followed as well. When they reached the door, Major Curtis began talking.

"General Oliver is to speak with you about plans for the future of our investigation. That's why he asked for your investigator friend to come first."

"Yeah," Jeremiah said. "I guessed as much. You guys have always been predictable."

Curtis looked vainly at Jeremiah, and rolled his eyes. Behind him, Boone snickered. The three were led inside, and to the left, turning perpendicular to the dilapidated slot machines inside the wide terminal. They walked past the escalators and into a small office in the corner of the building.

Inside what had been Colonel Hsu's office, a small conference table had been set up. Around the table were General Oliver, Jay Barnes, and a man whom Jeremiah did not know. The man sat next to Jay Barnes, and when Curtis brought the three in, he leaned over to Barnes and began whispering in his ear.

General Oliver motioned to three chairs across from the three already sitting. Major Curtis stood off to the side, close to the wall. "Welcome, gentlemen. I believe you do not know Major Mark Edwards. He is the head of the military police, and I have placed him, along with Major Curtis, at the head of the current investigation. Also, I spoke with President Kimball just an hour ago. He ever-so-graciously informed me that he will be coming to Vegas next month to speak with Mr. House about the NCR's annexation of the Mojave."

Jeremiah sat confused, staring at the general. "Didnt you try to pull that after Hoover Dam?"

"Yes, well, we're trying again."

The group sat in an awkward silence for few moments, everyone waiting for the other to speak. Finally, Oliver continued.

"President Kimball agress that this situation should be the military's top priority. And so, again, I am offering you the chance to help us. The threat posed is not just against us, but against the entire Mojave. We would be grateful to cooperate with you"

Looking at Boone and Joshua, in turn, Jeremiah figured at what the NCR was doing. They wanted, probably _needed_, his help. However, they would not give him full reign over the operation. So, they were offering him a chance to cooperate with them. A joint operation. He wasn't going to be able to work as a lone wolf; pro bono.

"What are you thinkking?" he asked Boone.

"I think there is a hell of a lot more to this than assassinations," he shrugged. "We could get work done."

"Joshua?" Jeremiah asked.

"Caesar is always up to something bigger. Vulpes and the Frumentarii may just be the tip of the iceber - uh, mountain." Jeremiah nodded. He knew both were right in their own respective way. The problem he was faced with - would he let the NCR control him?

"Okay," he said, leaning forward. "I'll work with you, General."

Smiling, Oliver stood and offered his hand. "Thank you, Mr. Wint-"

Jeremiah cut him off. "Sit down, sir. I'm not finished." Frazzled, the general sat. Curtis pushed off the wall, his eyes wide. Everyone, including Boone, appeared surprised at Jeremiah's harsh words.

"I'll work with you. I won't work _for_ you. I will give the orders, and I will organize it all. In fact, I'll organize an entire _team_ that will work on this. Call us the, uh..._Mojave Intelligence Office_. In addition to just forming the office, I'll hand pick who I want for it. We'll investigate, analyze, and find the answers. We'll be the ones to take out the Frumentarii, when the time comes."

The officers of the NCR military sat shocked, suddenly back in basic training, as their drill sergeant barked orders at them. Boone stared at Jeremiah, perplexed at his sudden demands. General Oliver was visibly shaken. Finally, after regaining his composure, he spoke. "Well, Jeremiah. Your demands are outrageous and embarrassing, but I can see no other alternative, as we need your help greatly." He looked around at the other NCR officers. "However, I will assign both Major Edwards and Major - you've been promoted, Ronald - Curtis to your detail. That should cover most of what you have been brought here to speak about. Now, if there are no further comments, this meeting is dismissed."

The congregation rose, the NCR officers saluted as General Oliver left the room, and all was silent. Slowly, the remaining officers filed out of the small office. Jeremiah, Boone, Joshua, and Jay Barnes remained.

"Where did that come from?" Boone asked his friend.

Jeremiah shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe I've had enough of being pushed around by these people. Maybe I just have a big head. Oh well, worked didn't it?" The group laughed; all except Joshua, who looked past his bandages with eyes filled with regret.

"Be wary, all of you. Though they may give you what you want, the NCR is spearheaded by a man out for power and control, and he will always get what he asks for." Joshua told them, cryptically. The laughter died almost immediately, replaced by a stillness that hung in the room. The dirt layered across the floor of the office made scraping noises as the three younger men scraped and shuffled their feet about. Joshua's blue eyes seemed to regard them all with a sad glare. Watching him, Jeremiah wondered if he knew something they didn't.

"Time to get started, I guess," Jeremiah mumbled as the group walked out.

* * *

Outside the terminal, the NCR military was alive with energy. After the bombing at the monorail, soldiers seemed to find their second wind; a purpose in the dreary patrols of the Mojave. In a short few hours, they joined together in one common goal: to find whoever was responsible, and give them hell.

Jeremiah pushed through the crowds of soldiers walking around on the airport grounds. Reaching the First Recon tent, he pushed open the flap. The man he sought was the only in the tent, and was seated at the small eating table in the center. On the table was a rifle, and the man was in the process of disassembling and cleaning it.

"You even know how to shoot that thing, Gorobets?" Jeremiah mused as they approached. The man, Lieutenant Frank Gorobets, turned in his chair and laughed.

"Not as good as you did, Sergeant," he said. Jeremiah pulled Gorobets out of the chair and into an embrace. The two had served together during Jeremiah and Boone's time in the military. Frank Gorobets had been an excellent shot in Recon, but not as well as Sergeant First Class Winters and Lieutenant Boone. After they had been discharged, he had been given the rank that had been a long time in coming. Now he was in line to be promoted to Captain, on account of Dhatri and Curtis' promotion. "What can I do for you?"

"Actually, I need your help. I've been tasked with investigating the killings that have been happening lately, and now the monorail bombing. General Oliver has just now given me the green light to form a team of specialists to aid in the investigation. Now, I have the four who stand before you, plus Major Mark Edwards and Major Ronald Curtis. So, I'm asking for you, as well as your second-best shot in the unit."

Lieutenant Gorobets paused. He placed his hands on his hips, and sighed. "Well, Jeremiah, I'm sorry to say that Dhatri has got all hands on deck here. We're about to move east; apparently some settlements are having raider trouble out that-a-way. I'm afraid I'm not in a position to lend you myself, or any of my men." He shook his head, and removed his beret from his head. With his free hand, he wiped the sweat from his brow.

"I'd love to help, but I just don't think I can," he finished.

Suddenly, Colonel Dhatri opened the tent. "Nonsense! I have just received word from General Oliver that the entire NCR military is to give Mr. Winters all the support that he requests. Therefore, _Captain Gorobets, _I can see no problem with you aiding in his current undertaking." Dhatri smiled a ridiculous grin, and Jeremiah chuckled. Despite being embarrassed in front of old friends, the new-Captain Gorobets' face brightened, and he turned back to Jeremiah.

"There you have it, I guess. Now, lets go find our other shooter." He motioned for Jeremiah and his friends to follow, and they exited the tent, and walked into a second tent. Here, Gorobets opened a filing cabinet and pulled out a roster. Examining it, he mumbled quietly to himself, before nodding and walking out again. Catching an NCR grunt by the arm, he told him, "Go tell Private Steve Angrenade that Captain Gorobets needs to see him in the Recon tent, immediately." The soldier saluted and ran off in the direction of the firing range.

When he turned back to his guests, Jeremiah was looking at him with a skeptical look on his face. "A private is your best shot?" Gorobets laughed.

"No. I am the best shot. Private Angrenade is a very nice shot, he is young, and he does not carry with him a traumatic experience like everyone else in the unit has. He's like us in basic training; gung-ho and naive. In addition, he is like Mister Graham here."

At hearing his name, Joshua looked at him intensely. "What do you mean?"

Gorobets stepped closer to the group. "Private Steve Angrenade is a Legion reformer," he whispered. "At eighteen, just last year, he was the youngest of the Praetorian Guard, Caesar's bodyguards. At Hoover Dam, when the rest of the legionnaires were cutting their throats when Caesar ordered the retreat, he was taken prisoner by our Rangers. Instead of being taken back to California to be locked away, he confessed that he never truly agreed with the Legion's ideals. Under interrogation by General Oliver himself, he asked to be let in the NCR military; to fight." Gorobets nodded, and watched as Jeremiah's group accepted his story.

"He's almost like you, Jeremiah. Could've been a Ranger. Passed BT with flying colors. He may be young, but the Legion gave him some heavy no-bullshit experience. Needless to say, you'll be happy he'll be along."

So, they waited. Gorobets moved them back into the Recon tent to give them brief shelter from the sweltering sun. It didn't take long before there was movement outside the tent. The entrance flap was swept aside, and Private Steve Angrenade stepped inside.

Jeremiah never found himself without words often; when the private first stepped in, he was speechless.

Steve Angrenade was indeed very young, but they had all expected that. His stature, as a whole, was very small. He stood around 5'11", and probably weighed close to one hundred and twenty pounds. His muscle mass was sub standard. All of this aside, his face was stern and lean, and he possesed an air of authority. Being only a private, he seemed to take his job seriously. The red beret covered short black hair. He stood at attention; big green eyes sweeping the figures in the room. A .308 bolt action rifle was slung across his back, a ten millimeter pistol was hooked to his belt, and Jeremiah guessed a combat knife sat in his boot.

"Private First Class Steve Angrenade reporting for duty, Captain Gorobets!" the second-best shot in the NCR said sternly. Gorobets walked into the space between the private and Jeremiah.

"Private _First Class_, eh? Someone is moving up in the world, I see," he mused. Angrenade remained still.

"Sir, yes sir!" he replied. Jeremiah gave a hint of a smile.

"Well, PFC Angrenade, this is your new assignment. Meet Jeremiah Winters, former Sergeant First Class of First Recon. Beside him, with the dark sunglasses and red beret, is Lieutenant Craig Boone, also formerly of Recon. Then we have former Captain of the Military Police, Jay Barnes. And, finally, Joshua Graham; the Burned Man."

Angrenade's stern complexion went a bit lax at hearing Gorobets give the introductions, especially on Joshua's. His head turned to his commanding officer. "Sir, have I done something wrong?"

Gorobets waved him off. "Nonsense, Steve. At ease, take a seat."

The PFC pulled a chair across from Boone, and sat straight in it. Gorobets stood off to the side. Jeremiah leaned his elbows on the table, and motioned for something to drink from the unit refrigerator. "You mind if I call you Steve, private?" Angrenade shook his head quick. "Well, Steve, I have been tasked by General Oliver to investigate and bring down those responsible for the Mojave's latest atrocities. Hence, the killing of Colonel Hsu, Ambassador Crocker, Johnson Nash, and the bombing of the monorail. In addition to _my_ new assignment, the ever-so-gracious general has given me the liberty of forming a group that is specifically dedicated to the task given specifically to me."

Jeremiah paused as Gorobets retrieved a bottle of Nuka-Cola. Pulling his combat knife, Angrenade twirled it around the cap, and flipped it off. Smiling, Jeremiah raised the bottle and took a few short sips of the drink. Then, he continued. "Being of the First Recon breed, I know firsthand what some don't."

Angrenade looked up questioningly. "What's that, sir?"

"The difference between First Recon, and the Rangers. The Rangers count on brute strength to carry out their missions. With people like Recon, you; _us, _we count on precision, accuracy, intelligence, and yes, sometimes strength to carry out what we need done. That's why I'm here instead of at Camp Golf, though I expect that I'll be there too, recruiting. In short, private, I'm asking for you and Captain Gorobets to join me and these fine gentlemen."_  
_

The private accepted the majority of what Jeremiah had said. He looked back at Gorobets, who nodded. Finally, he turned back. "But, sir, why me?"

Jeremiah pointed at Gorobets. "Because he thinks you're a damn fine sharpshooter. And, me and your captain go back aways, so I tend to listen to what he says." Angrenade nodded, and smiled. "So, what do you say? You in?" Jeremiah stuck out his hand.

After having a moment of reflection, PFC Steve Angrenade stuck out his hand, and shook Jeremiah's own. Captain Gorobets clapped his hands, and gave Angrenade a pat on the back.

"Now," Jeremiah began again, looking at the captain, "go get me the best Ranger ya'll got."

* * *

Bryce Anders was the best Ranger in the NCR military, and everyone knew it. Though he didn't have enough years to qualify for the duster of the Veteran Rangers, he was seasoned enough to be the Ranger the NCR brass had called for time after time. This last time had been no different.

When he received word from Colonel Dhatri that he would be joining an organization dubbed the Mojave Intelligence Office, Anders had just come in from three days of leave in Reno. Before his leave, Anders had been given the task (by the deceased Colonel James Hsu) to infiltrate Vault 3, home of the Fiends. The drug-addicted, insane gang known as the Fiends had taken over the Vault, using it as their home. Colonel Hsu ordered Ranger Anders to sneak in, and assassinate their leader, Motor-Runner.

So, one night, Bryce Anders had done the unthinkable: he successfully snuck into Vault 3. That was when Camp McCarran lost all contact with him. For nearly two months Anders had been under. Colonel Hsu, on the day he had been shot, told the communications team to forget about him. So they did.

A week after Hsu's death, Bryce Anders requested permission to reenter Camp McCarran. He had been admitted into the camp with minor cuts on his leg, and a slight hangover. Upon his debriefing, he told Colonel Dhatri that he lasted so long in the Vault by sleeping in a "long-forgotten janitor's closet," and by dressing in Fiend clothing to extract information. He had also released several prisoners the Fiends had imprisoned in the Vault brig.

Needless to say, the brass had been amazed. Anders blamed it on his "Hispanic heritage."

Jeremiah had been impressed, too. Anders' secret mission reminded him of his own, when he had been fresh out of BT, and handpicked by General Oliver, along with a few others. The name of said mission still resonated in his head from time to time; two words that brought back the terror that failure had brought.

Operation Backwood. Thinking about it made him shudder; made him feel cold.

Anders was currently laying on his bed in a small tent, obviously made just for him. On one side was a desk, equipped with (now useless) files on the Fiends and the surrounding area. A HAM radio sat on one side as well. A refrigerator and small food cabinet sat next to his bed (bed, not cot). His Ranger Patrol Armor was hanging next to his weapons rack. At present, Ranger Anders was wearing his "restricted duty" gear: a white button-up shirt, khaki pants, a brown vest, and red scarf. Jeremiah guessed his clothing looked similar, only he was wearing a red shirt, and he had no scarf.

"So, you're saying I work for you now?" Anders asked Jeremiah.

''Until the whole situation is resolved, yes," Jeremiah answered.

"When do we start?"

* * *

**Crimson Caravan Headquarters **

As soon as he left Camp McCarran, he sent his followers to The Tops, where he commandeered the Presidential Suite (thanks to Benny). He had decided that The Tops would be a nice staging ground. At the Lucky 38, Mr. House would be breathing down their necks, and trying to crawl up their asses. Though they may need his technology, Jeremiah figured, in the end.

Now, he alone walked through the long cabins that was the headquarters of the Crimson Caravan Trading Company. The cabins, each housing either barracks or offices, were enclosed by a concrete fence. Workers milled about, either readying caravans for their treks or greeting the caravaneers coming in from their treks. Here was where Jeremiah would find the next member of the MIO. The man he sought was standing next to the supply stand.

"Ringo," Jeremiah tipped his felt hat to the trader, who was busy rolling a cigarette. The young man, startled, looked up. The clean, nervous face that he had known back in Goodsprings was gone. In its place was no boy; a man had filled his shoes. Ringo looked as if he had seen hard times: a rough beard was beginning to grow, and a thin layer of dust had caked on his face. However, he still knew when to smile.

"Look who the brahmin drug in," Ringo and Jeremiah shook hands, and the latter held out a lighter to the former's smoke.

"What've you been doing since I saved your ass back in Goodsprings?" Jeremiah asked him. Ringo took a few drags on his cigarette, puffing smoke rings into the bright noon sun.

"When I got back, I was awarded my own caravan. We ran upwards to New Canaan at first, along with a few from Happy Trails Company. Then, we hired some mercs to clear out the paths north. While they were doing that, I ran a caravan west, out to San Francisco. Town's under major reforms. Hell, it's practically a war zone with local gangs and the NCR. That trip, I lost half my crew before the return." He paused.

Jeremiah sat staring at him while he waited. Ringo had come of age. Leading a caravan had brought the man out of the boy. "Sounds like you've seen a fair share of shit."

Ringo chuckled. "San Francisco wasn't even the worst. My last caravan was tasked with running up to Portland, and then onwards to Seattle. Hell of a long way. The mercs had cleared a majority of the roads, but I had a few extra guards assigned to my detail. We were able to reach Portland with minimal trouble. The road to Seattle was a different story. Very mountainous; hilly. Halfway there, we got ambushed by this crazy group of raiders. These guys weren't your typical Vipers or Jackals; Fiends or Khans. These raiders were fucking _crazy_. My entire team was killed. All the brahmin slaughtered, and all the wares burned."

While he listened, Jeremiah racked his brain for any knowledge of such a group. He had spent some time before Operation Backwood studying various raider groups, to get a feel for the land between Nevada and Arizona. He hadn't had much time to study movement to the north. "How'd you survive?" he asked.

Shuddering, Ringo explained. "When they ambushed us, we were on the rise of a hill. On one side of the hill was a ravine which led to a river. The other was just plains and more hills. When these raiders jumped us, we tried to defend ourselves. Me and the guards were able to kill a few, but my other Crimson trader took it hard. All of a sudden, I felt this pain in my shoulder," he lifted back the collar of his shirt and pointed to a bandage over that wrapped around his left shoulder. "And I fell from my perch on top of one of our wagons. I rolled, and ended up rolling down the hill and into bushes that bordered the river. I passed out. When I came to, and got back up the hill, everyone on my team was dead, and the savages hadn't taken anything."

Examining the young trader made man, Jeremiah felt pity for him. Though his position, he was still young at heart. "I'm sorry to hear that, Ringo. What are you waiting for now?"

He shrugged. "Hell, who knows? Caravans only run to New Canaan and places in the Mojave nowadays. Everywhere else is to dangerous. Some go into the NCR, but who wants to go there? I'm a trailblazer, Jeremiah. I was thinking about maybe running down to Mexico. Or the Boneyard. Hell, they'll probably have me running a caravan to the fucking _capital_ in a few years! Imagine that! _Washington D.C!" _

Ringo laughed, shakily. The hand which held the cigarette went to his forehead, and he wiped the sweat from it. At one point, Jeremiah thought he saw a tear roll down the man's face. Sadly, he placed a hand on his shoulder.

"I need your help, Ringo," the trader looked up, perplexed. "The NCR military has asked me to investigate the latest events in the Mojave. I have begun to put together a team that is going to aid in my quest. I'm asking for you to join me."

"Why me?"

"Because you're a trader. You know the lay of the land. How people can move easily. You also know how word gets around quick, and how to get word around fast. And, we need your gun."

"'Need my gun,' you know damn well my gun ain't worth shit. You keep talking, Jeremiah. That's another thing you're good at."

"I guess that I've got vision while the rest of the wasteland is wearing bifocals. I can train you, Ringo."

Ringo looked skeptically at Jeremiah. He debated over his current situation. The somewhat safe lifestyle of the Crimson Caravan, or help a courier bring down a potentially dangerous opponent? "How long?"

"Until I release you."

Ringo took another puff on his cigarette. His eyes betrayed him; he was fighting internal conflict. After a few moments, he shrugged.

"Aw, what the hell. Might do me good to get away from here for a few weeks. Sure, Jeremiah. I'll help."

* * *

** Freeside **

The King listened as Jeremiah relayed the current situation.

"So," his drawl lingered on the word. "You want me to lend some of my men?" Jeremiah shook his head, and leaned closer to the big man.

"Not at all, King. What I want, is for you and your men to keep an eye out for any suspicious activity, and shady people coming in and out of the Strip. Keep me notified. I'll be staying in The Tops Presidential, and working out of the Lucky 38. Have a runner contact me there."

"How soon do you want me to get my eyes and ears out?"

"Immediately. I will be spending a few days in the mountains near Jacobstown, training my men how I want them to act. We will be completely isolated. If you need to report anything, report to either Major Mark Edwards of the NCRMP or Major Ronald Curtis, both at Camp McCarran. I should be down out of the mountains in a few days. Training shouldn't take long."

Jeremiah smirked as he said the last words. The King laughed a hearty, accent-filled laugh, and the two shook hands.

* * *

**Lucky 38 **

Everyone currently sitting in front of the computer screen was wondering the same thing: could Mr. House see things? And if he could, what was he thinking?

The bulk of the Mojave Intelligence Office was sitting in front of the green computer screen. The smug picture on the screen flickered for a moment, and was still. Bryan stood in front of the group as well. He appeared unsure; waiting for House to start.

"Mr. Winters, is that what you call a _"tactical response team?" _House said in his skeptical tone.

Jeremiah coughed. "Um, yes sir. These are the some of the most talented people I know. They do not hold dominion over just one aspect of their life; instead, they are what you would call 'well-rounded.' In addition, Major Edwards has informed me that General Oliver has given the full support of the NCR's intelligence department." Mr. House, upon hearing this, laughed.

"Oh, please. The Agency is nothing more than a reflection of the CIA's former glory. The NCR simply hires terminal hackers out of school and puts them into government service. You are on your own, and you know that. Otherwise, you wouldn't be here."

Before Jeremiah could reply, Major Curtis spoke up. "On the contrary, Mr. House, the Agency was involved in the operation that infiltrated the Legion and attempted to assassinate Caesar, before he even entered the Mojave."

"Yes, because that mission ended so well, didn't it, Major?" House retorted, viciously.

Defeated, Curtis sat. He crossed his arms angrily, and Jeremiah chuckled. NCR officers acting childish was quite amusing.

"Now that the pleasantries are aside," House coughed. "What can I do for you gentlemen? Because honestly, you being here is a great inconvenience to me."

"I want your full cooperation, House," Jeremiah began. "I have been entrusted to find the ones responsible for the Mojave's latest _great inconveniences_. Furthermore, I would like to use your casino, the Lucky 38, as a workplace. Seeing how you don't use it for anything else, I think we could put the technology to good use."

"Absolutely not. The technology I have here is far to advanced for inadequate minds such as your own."

"Well, that was simple. Enjoy business, House. With the decline of the Mojave will come the decline of your empire." Jeremiah got up, and motioned for the men of the MIO to follow. As they were preparing to leave, House sighed.

"Wait."

* * *

**The Next Day**

_"Not good enough!"_ Jeremiah yelled as he stomped over to where Private Angrenade stood. Angrenade stood straight, prepared for the correction he was about to receive. Beside him, Ringo and Bryan O'Neil shrank back from Jeremiah's harsh tone. The four stood in a clearing near the ski lodge in Jacobstown. The forest, though light, offered excellent training space for the youngest soldiers of the Mojave Intelligence Operation. Jeremiah had sent everyone excluding himself and the three "youngsters" to the Lucky 38 to get started. He then took the three out into the mountains of the Sierra-Nevada only after making a quick stop at the Gun Runners. At the outset of training, he had given each of the three a gun belt, and a .44 magnum revolver.

Upon arriving in the mountains, Jeremiah and the three trainees had set a small campsite. Then, Jeremiah had instructed the three to surrender any armor pieces they possessed. Private Angrenade had given his entire NCR uniform, and wore nothing but his off-duty fatigues: olive-color jeans and a white shirt with the double-headed bear on the chest. Ringo pulled a solid metal plate from under his red flannel shirt. A makeshift bulletproof vest, he had said. Bryan unstrapped his left shoulder pad, and had removed it from the his brown leather clothing. Though Jeremiah knew the kid's entire getup was made to function as armor, he knew in a firefight it would not add up to much.

After collecting their armor, Jeremiah told them what they were wearing was their new uniform. They had accepted the fact quickly.

Today was the third day in the mountains, and they were being taught the act of drawing their weapon.

"Steve, do you know what you did wrong?" Jeremiah asked, standing in front of Angrenade.

Scratching his head, the young man shook his head. Dirty blond previously swept to one side fell down his forehead, glistening with sweat. He swatted it to one side. "No sir, I don't," he admitted.

Jeremiah took ten steps back; long strides. "I'll tell you what you did! You hesitated!" At this point, Jeremiah switched to group correction. "Gentlemen, you are no longer soldiers employed by a higher authority; you are now _citizen soldiers._ And as such, you do not have a rule of engagement that constricts you to when you fire! Angrenade, get ready! I am a hostile, but we are standing on a crowded street in the Strip. We see each other, but do not want to risk a bad shot going astray. So, I'm going to try to get close before I draw on you. Your job is to be quick!"

At a normal pace, Jeremiah began walking forward. When he reached the halfway point, he drew. Angrenade had suspected it, and had judged the time when Jeremiah would draw. Half a second beforehand, he had drew his own revolver. However, Jeremiah was the one to fire first. The hammer struck with a _Click! _and Angrenade sighed.

"You did it again! You had your gun up nearly a full second before I did, but I still killed you! Why?" Jeremiah asked, angrily.

"Because I hesitated," Angrenade said, disappointed.

"Exactly!" Jeremiah pointed at the revolver in Steve's hand. "The minute - the _second_ - you pull that gun, it's all or nothing. You better be fully committed, because at that point you're about to kill, or you're about to be killed. And for your sake, I hope you choose to kill," Jeremiah ended his speech, and the three trainees nodded. He had their attention now; they knew he meant business.

Stepping back, Jeremiah glanced back at Private Angrenade, who nodded. Jeremiah took normal strides, not walking too fast, or too slow. In his head, he calculated the moment Angrenade should draw, exactly half of a second before he did. To do that, Steve must first make the assumption that Jeremiah was an enemy. Second, he would have to commit himself to drawing his revolver and firing. Third, he would have to execute. Jeremiah had instructed them in the process when on the second day, the day they had first worked on confrontations .

The first day had been about equipment upkeep and survival. Jeremiah taught them how to survive in the wastes; things Ringo knew from his caravan experience. How to make shelter; how to find food; how to tell direction and predict weather. Also, he taught them how to strip and clean their guns, clean the gunbelts, and make bullets. These were things Private Angrenade knew by heart, from time in the Legion and in the NCR military. And though he didn't seem like he was green, all this information was new to Bryan.

On the second day, Jeremiah taught them how to assess, evaluate, and execute, and arranged for target practice with makeshift bows and arrows. Now, on the third and final day of field training, Private Angrenade was using the system.

Jeremiah took his third step, two more to the halfway point.

_Assess. _

Angrenade sized up Jeremiah: six and a half feet tall, weighing in at around two hundred and fifteen. He was walking at a stride of one yard for every one step. Now, the distance between the two was six yards, when it had been ten. He wore a revolver on his right hip, and his right hand lay stiff next to it. Jeremiah seemed to drift into a crouch, readying himself for something.

_Evaluate. _

The approaching figure was going to draw, and when he drew, he would be drawing his weapon with more than likely malicious intent. This made him the enemy. The enemy would draw at the halfway mark; five yards away. At that distance, the enemy could afford to shoot high, so he would aim low. The movement of his revolver moving upwards would cause the man to shoot at an upward angle. The bullet would fly out of the barrel going nearly 1200 feet per second. The bullet, most likely a .45 caliber, would strike Angrenade in either the upper torso, neck, or head. To defend himself, Angrenade would be forced to draw his own weapon with intent to kill.

_Execute. _

Private Angrenade drew his revolver as Jeremiah reached five yards away, and was about to draw. Angrenade drew a half second before Jeremiah, bent, and squeezed the trigger just as Jeremiah's gun flew out of its own holster. The hammer clicked, and Angrenade saw an imaginary bullet pierce Jeremiah's upper torso.

As silence filled the air, Jeremiah smiled.

* * *

**The Tops Casino - Presidential Suite**

The walls of the Presidential Suite were caked with dust which hung in the air as Jeremiah closed the door. The suite itself had not been lived in after Benny moved to the high roller suite on the thirteenth floor. By every standard, the Presidential was superior to the high roller. More spacious, more rooms, and a better stock of booze.

Jeremiah was sitting in a small, lumpy armchair, nursing a bottle of whiskey. The only sound in the rooms were him sipping his alcohol, his breathing, and the soft music of Frank Sinatra singing "Blue Moon," from the radio on the bar. The whiskey burned going down, but Jeremiah enjoyed it. He was troubled; busy going over the clues in his head. One thing troubled his mind: the persona of Captain - Major Ronald Curtis. How had he known the make of the weapon which killed Colonel Hsu before Doctor Hildern could determine it? That single oddity was the only thing that Jeremiah could not decipher. Before he could saturate on it longer, the door opened.

"Well, look who is a big shot with the NCR now," a soft voice crooned. Turning in the armchair, Jeremiah saw it was Cass. Her hat was in one hand, and she had already taken off her jacket. Moving with an unusual gracefulness, she hung hat and jacket on a rack by the door, and glided over to him.

"What're you doing here?" Jeremiah asked, surprised by her appearance.

"The ranch was boring with you gone. So I let Ruby Nash hold down the fort, along with her nephew. They are there now, and I'm here," she said as she sat on the arm of his chair, taking the bottle of whiskey from his hand. "Mind sharing?" she asked, her eyes looking deep into his.

Shrugging, he shook his head. He wrapped his arms around her waist, leaned up, and kissed her. "By all means, have it. I've been lonely without you here," he quipped. She took a long swallow from the bottle, and leaned her face close to his. Their lips met, and they stayed for a while.

Finally, they broke apart when a knock came at the door. At Jeremiah's instruction, the door opened to reveal Bryan O'Neil. His small stature rushed into the living area. His gaunt face showed excitement and anxiety.

"Major Curtis just received a call. There's been another assassination at Camp Forlorn Hope," he announced.

With a look at Cass, Jeremiah cursed. The two rose, and Cass watched as Jeremiah retrieved his gunbelts, and strapped them on. He fingered the action on his revolvers, and loaded them with their .45 shells; six in each. He shrugged into his duster, and tightened his dirt-stained vest. As he placed his rattan hat on his head, he nodded to Bryan.

"Let's get to it, then,"


	17. A Sense of Forlorn Hope

_**Again, sorry for the delay. I've been on vacation for most of July. I should be able to post back-to-back chapters. I finally have a plan, and I know where the story is going to go. In fact, this chapter was supposed to be a part of the last, but I needed to publish something fast, and that chapter would have been pretty lengthy. So, I split it up.**_

_**I have also been looking for a beta reader. I contacted a few people, but they weren't reliable. So, if any of you reading this would care to be my beta, contact me and we can talk. For my writing to not suck like it does now, I need someone; bad. And soon. Just let me know!**_

_**Thanks to everyone who reads, and reviews! I love your reveiws! **_

_**Enjoy**_

**Camp McCarran**

Jeremiah stood in front of his selected people. The newly-formed Mojave Intelligence Office was barely a day old, but already being put to the test. Bryan had told him, "There's been another assassination at Camp Forlorn Hope," and Jeremiah wanted to get there quick, fan out, and catch that Legion bastard.

In front of him stood Private Steve Angrenade, Captain Frank Gorobets, Major Mark Edwards, Ringo, Boone, Bryan O'Neil, Joshua Graham, Cass, and the remainder of First Recon. He was briefing them on what their mission was.

"...and once we arrive, I have arranged, with Colonel Curtis, to be met with the Jay Barnes. Some of you will go to the crime scene, the rest will go out and canvas the entire camp, looking for _anyone _suspicious. I want this son of a bitch caught before he can kill anyone else. What we're about to do is move out, down through the 188 Trading Post, and past Boulder City. I'm hoping to reach the Colorado, and then move straight down. That way, if the killer tries to escape, we may be in a position to catch him. Load up, we leave in ten," he finished.

The group dispersed, going to retrieve weapons or to finish putting on a uniform. Jeremiah walked outside the First Recon tent and looked out towards the east, where the sun was just now peeking over the horizon. He pulled his duster close to him, and checked his two revolvers. Cass joined him outside, putting her arms around his waist. She looked at him over his shoulder, and he turned and pulled her close. Though his eyes were on the jewel he held, his mind was elsewhere. Cass noticed.

"Whatcha thinking about?" she asked, putting her head on his chest.

Jeremiah sighed. "I just got to thinking about this...I have an itch. A tick, if you will. I'm nervous."

Cass jerked her head up, and looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "You don't mean to say the big, bad courier who survived a bullet in the skull is _nervous_!"

"Yeah, I am," he looked at her. Her deep brown eyes stared back up at him from under her worn cowboy hat. She looked at him for a second before flicking his red First Recon beret, and kissing him.

"Where's your cowboy hat?"

"I didn't want something to happen to it. You know, the wear of the wastes. I packed my old Recon beret, so I thought I'd bring it along for the ride."

She laughed. Jeremiah melted; her laugh was damn sexy. Although, he couldn't shake that nervous feeling. As the two stood in the early morning sun, he was unsure with himself for the first time since...

Bitter Springs.

In a rush, it all came back to him.

_The shooting, the screams, the look of terror on Captain Dhatri's face as he told them to fire. He saw the dead bodies again, as live as they were on that day. He felt himself pull the trigger, subconsciously counting off bullets as they taught him to do. He saw the Khans running through Canyon 37, safety just yards away. The cries of the scared, the groans of the wounded...the endless nightmares that plagued him for nearly a year after. _

_And the blood...all the blood. It seemed to have flooded the canyon. Dear God, it ran in the ditches. Some were covered in it. _

Jeremiah shuddered, trying vainly to shake the screams from his head. Cass looked up at him, concerned. He looked back at her, fear in his eyes. She released him, and stepped back. "Jeremiah, what's wrong?"

He stood outside the First Recon tent, and looked at her. For the first time in forever, he was _happy. _With _her. _She made him happy, something he never thought he would feel again. Could he tell her? Could he share his pain, the pain that haunted him every time he thought back to...that place?

He shook his head. "It's nothing, don't worry," his voice betrayed him.

"Tell me," her voice pleaded.

It hurt, lying to her. Everything within him wanted to explain, wanted to ease the pain she felt watching him in his current state.

"Cass," his voice broke. "I _can't." _

Looking at him with those deep brown eyes he loved, Cass attempted to find some hint, some sort of explanation. Jeremiah's eyes showed nothing except fear and uncertainty. Finally, she closed her own, and nodded. Jeremiah shuffled his feet in the dirt, and then reached into his duster. He withdrew his 12.7mm pistol.

"You sure you don't want to back out? The victim may be grisly, and this killer will be cold-blooded."

"No," she asserted. She stood with an air of certainty, one that was the complete opposite of Jeremiah's. "I'm coming with you. I want to help."

Jeremiah nodded. He couldn't tell her no.

The two hugged again, and waited there until the MIO joined them. From the shadows between two tents, Craig Boone had watched the entire exchange. He saw Jeremiah's eyes fill with fear. He understood. The memories of Bitter Springs haunted him daily, though he tried to not let it show. His was worse, in a way.

Because in the depths of those memories, _she _was there. His happiness, and his everything. Carla. When he heard the screams of the Khans, he heard her scream, too. And now, closing his eyes, he could see her. In her last moments, he saw her through the scope of his rifle, surrounded by legionnaires. He felt that feeling Jeremiah felt - emptiness - as he watched what they were bidding for. He felt alone, helpless.

Boone closed his eyes, and his sadness was replaced with a hard resolve. A steel determination to kill. The Legion would pay. In one way or another.

They would _all_ pay_. _

* * *

**Earlier - Unknown**

The Frumentarii sat around their conference table. The safehouse was cold tonight, but they didn't mind. Vulpes sat at the head, though he didn't speak. They were all waiting. Sitting, and waiting.

Suddenly, Picus walked into the conference room. The Frumentarii looked up at him with little emotion. Picus, known to most as Ronald Curtis, he wore his NCR uniform and green beret still. The Legion agents figured he had come immediately from McCarran. The now-Colonel panted, catching his breath.

"Status, Picus?" Vulpes asked, his calm voice commanding.

"Oliver...gave...courier...control..." Curtis puffed.

Vulpes nodded, and smiled. "Yes, much as you thought he would. Well, did you tell him of the _assassination?" _

"Yes..." Curtis smiled as he nodded. He stood straight up and addressed them all at once. "Winters immediately called his new group - the Mojave Intelligence Office - to action. They are to rally at McCarran in the morning, and then move out at first light. I suggested he move past Boulder City to the cliffs above the Colorado, and move down straight to Forlorn Hope. The terrain there is perfect for our ambush."

The Frumentarii chuckled collectively. Vulpes smiled, pleased. "Excellent, Picus. Again you show true initiative. We will move out at once. Cato, go retrieve our friends at the train depot. Only five or six shall do."

As Cato turned to leave, Vulpes leaned back in his chair. The wolf head made him seem menacing, even though his composure showed that he was relaxed.

"Caesar will have his revenge," he whispered to the ceiling. The Frumentarii all smiled.

* * *

**North of Forlorn Hope **

Jeremiah led the MIO south along the cliffs. Below them, the Colorado River rushed south towards Mexico. Whitewater rapids loudly splashed against sharp rocks and the cliff walls. To the north, Hoover Dam loomed in the distance. The sun beat down on them, at its zenith.

No one spoke. Many focused on walking, as the terrain was hilly. Rocks of all sizes littered the ground. Currently, the group was hiking up a small hill. When they crested, they could see Helios One in the distance. Before them, the hill led into a small valley, surrounded on all sides by similar hills. A few boulders sat in the bowl of the valley. Out of breath due to their constant walking, Jeremiah called a halt, and surveyed the land laid out in front of them. Boone walked up beside him.

"Where is Colonel Curtis?" he asked.

Jeremiah looked up at him, hands on his knees. He shrugged. "I think he said he was going to meet us at the camp."

"Don't you find that a bit odd?" Boone was standing straight, arms crossed. The sunglasses reflected the sunlight into Jeremiah's eyes, causing him to squint.

"Not really. What are you getting at?"

"I don't know. I just find it strange he sent us, but didn't join us. Must just be a feeling. Like a tick, you know?"

Jeremiah nodded, looking down at the ground. "Yeah," he sighed. "I know." Boone fell silent. He remained fixed on some point in the distance as Jeremiah took a few more moments to rest. He stood, and motioned for the group to continue walking.

The MIO walked down into the bowl; Jeremiah and Boone leading. First Recon brought up the rear. Slowly, the reached the meniscus of the bowl. As they reached the center, Jeremiah noticed the wind shift. He stopped, looking around. When he raised his eyes up to the hill in front, he glanced at a dark figure raised up above the crest of the rise. Again, the wind shifted. Then, someone grunted behind him.

With a start, Jeremiah realized the wind had not shifted. He had felt _bullets _pass him. Turning, he looked. Captain Gorobets crouched on the ground, holding his left knee.

Jeremiah started, eyes flying open. _"Take cover!" _he shouted.

The cliffs roared, and thunder boomed across the hills.

People flew in all directions, diving for a boulder or a small mound of dirt. Firearms discharged in the hills above them. In the rush, Jeremiah threw himself against a boulder. Dazed, he could not make out distinct sounds, and he could not tell what type of gun was shooting. The fire came from the hill in front of him, that he knew. Looking around, he found that Bryan and Private Angrenade had placed themselves beside him.

Across from him, Boone, Joshua, and Cass were crouched behind a smaller boulder. Boone sat calm, gripping his rifle in his hands. The sunglasses looked in Jeremiah's direction, and Boone gave a slight nod. Returning it, Jeremiah reached for his revolvers. Drawing, he stood above the rock, chancing a glance to the crest. He saw four dark shapes standing and firing down into the bowl. Ducking back down, he numbered off four fingers in Boone's direction. A single nod. Jeremiah took a few breaths, and then stood up again. This time, he raised both revolvers and shot four times, two with each. The dark shapes on the hill didn't waver. Jeremiah ducked down again.

"_Damn it!" _

Looking around, he noticed that Captain Gorobets still lay on the ground. A few feet behind him, First Recon sat clustered behind a large boulder. Ringo crouched on one side of the rock, looking at the Captain. The two made eye contact, and Jeremiah nodded.

_"Suppressing fire!" _

Jeremiah stood, pulling Bryan with him. The two raised their guns: Jeremiah his revolvers and Bryan his repeater. Boone lifted his rifle, looked through the scope, and fired. Thunder echoed. Joshua and Cass both raised their pistols and fired. Thunder again. A quick glance showed Jeremiah that First Recon was taking shots at their assailants. The silhouettes on the hill crouched behind the rise. Ringo was at Gorobets' side, looking at his knee. Private Angrenade slid over from his position behind the rock.

"What's his status?" Angrenade yelled.

Ringo looked up at him, concern across his face. "The knee is shattered. He won't be able to walk, and he won't let me pick him up. What do we do?"

Angrenade shouldered his rifle and turned to his Captain. His right knee was covered in blood. The kneecap, completely shattered, looked soft. Angrenade rolled him over and looked at the back. As he looked at the Captain's knee, he groaned. There was no exit wound. The bullet hit the kneecap, and ricocheted somewhere inside the leg.

"We have to move him, we need to get inside the leg!" Angrenade looked back to Ringo, whose eyes flew open. The two looked around. Angrenade looked over to where First Recon sat behind the rock. He waved two fingers, then flattened his hand and made three swiping motions behind him, toward where their attackers lay. Sterling and 10-of-Spades ran over. The remaining snipers stepped out from the rock and continued firing.

The four surrounded Gorobets, each grabbing a limb. The four lifted, and carried him back to where the rest of Recon stood. Setting Gorobets down behind the rock, they left him laying down and turned their attention to the firefight.

Jeremiah watched the evacuation happen, and grinned. The smile didn't stay long, as gunfire erupted from the hill on their right. Four more men appeared, firing down upon them. Boone turned and fired, hitting one near the shoulder. Ringo ran from the large boulder to where Joshua fired back, and whispered something to him. Joshua nodded, and returned with Ringo to the large boulder. Angrenade and Sterling replaced Joshua besides Boone.

When Joshua reached the large boulder, Gorobets squirmed on the ground. Blood fell from his ruined knee onto the dirt. First Recon continued to return fire, now on two sides. Ringo watched as Joshua examined the knee. Sweat dampened the bandages on his face, and the white shirt he wore under the SWAT vest was also damp.

"Give him two Med-X, please," Joshua told Ringo.

"What're you going to do?" he asked.

Joshua looked up, his blue eyes bright. "I've got to get the bullet out. To leave it in runs the risk of the leg becoming infected." As if to further explain his point, Joshua pulled a knife from his belt. Ringo's eyes opened wide.

Again, Joshua spoke, his voice remarkably steady. "Two Med-X, please."

At his rock, Jeremiah reloaded his revolvers. So far, things looked bad. He counted eight attackers in total, four in front of them, four on the left. They held the high ground, and though Boone had shot one, he didn't think it had done much damage. A loud yelp of pain filled the air, coming from behind him. Jeremiah turned. He couldn't see behind the rock, but he guessed Joshua was giving Gorobets first aid. If that bullet didn't go through, he would be trying to find it. That would be very painful.

Chancing it, Jeremiah ran through the gunfire to the rock where Gorobets lay. To his dismay, he saw Joshua with a knife, digging in Gorobets' leg. His fears were true. Holding back the bile rising in his throat, Jeremiah turned to Ringo.

"We can't stay here!" he shouted.

"I know, but he can't walk!" Ringo indicated Gorobets. "And Joshua has the most experience with this kind of stuff."

Jeremiah cursed, and sat with his back against the boulder. He closed his eyes, and took deep breaths. He knew the decision he had to make, but he didn't want to make it. It was the only decision to make, and he knew it. Jeremiah wondered if he even had the power to make that decision. Besides, it could mean the death of some of these men. Could he live with that on his shoulders? In addition to what he already had to live with? Again, Jeremiah cursed.

"Damn it all!" he shouted. Ringo jumped back. "I'm going to take everyone with me. You stay with Joshua and Gorobets. Medicate him, do whatever you have to do. I'll take the rest and we'll go to the cliffs, and follow them south. If you can, try to meet up with us," it pained him to say all this, but Jeremiah knew it had to be done. Ringo seemed to understand, and he nodded slowly.

"You got your gun loaded?" Jeremiah asked.

Ringo held up his 9mm pistol proudly. "You bet your ass I do."

Jeremiah slapped his arm. Turning to the First Recon shooters, he got their attention. "Listen up! We're getting out of this bowl. We'll head east, towards the cliffs. You give me and the rest covering fire, and then join us once we crest the hill. Got it?" he yelled. They nodded quickly, and returned shooting.

As he ran back to his rock, Jeremiah waved to Boone, Cass, and Angrenade. He motioned for them to follow him up the hill to the east. A quick relay to Bryan, and they ran.

The thunder of the Recon rifles filled the air as Jeremiah led his group up the hill. It was steep, but they had adrenaline pumping, Working their way up, bullets slapped the dirt around them. When they reached the crest of the hill, Jeremiah kept them running east. Behind, the Recon shooters ceased fire and ran up the slope of the hill.

The cliffs came into view. The rushing sound of the Colorado came into hearing range. Jeremiah slid down a small shingle that led to the cliff edge, and turned around. The group followed. Ahead, the Recon snipers ran at them. Behind, they were being chased by men in red and black clothing, with shoulder pads. Boone growled.

Legion.

The MIO fired at the legionnaires following Recon. Two went down, and the rest dove behind another cluster of rocks. Recon slid down the shingle, and turned to fire. For a moment, a lull in the battle occurred. Both sides caught their breath, and reloaded.

"Stay calm," Jeremiah reminded his group. Cass had ended up beside him, and she reloaded the 12.7mm with a shaky hand. Jeremiah noticed and put an arm around her. "We'll be okay."

Boone stood, firing his rifle. Bryan followed, as did Jeremiah. First Recon jumped up and the thunder returned.

The legionnaires jumped up again, returning fire. Jeremiah noticed there seemed to be more. Hadn't he counted eight? And hadn't they shot two more? He figured they were receiving reinforcements from somewhere. Or they had already been there?

Bullets slammed into the ground in front of Jeremiah, throwing dirt into his eyes. He grunted and sunk down into the shingle. Cass handed him her bandana, and he wiped his face.

When he turned his attention back to the field, he saw a legionnaire run and jump into the shingle. Jeremiah stepped around Boone, raised his revolver, and shot the man.

_Boom! Boom! _He flew back, blood spurting from his chest. Dead. Jeremiah squatted, reloading two more shells into the cylinder. Before he stood back up, another legionnaire jumped slid into the shingle, almost directly on top of him. Using his revolver, he slapped the man across the face. He fell, and Jeremiah was upon him. Fist after fist slammed into the man's face. However, the legionnaire was able to put a foot into Jeremiah's chest, pushing him off. They rolled, and the legionnaire pulled a knife. Jeremiah brought two hands up, ready to block, when there was a gunshot, and blood spewed from the man's throat. It flew onto Jeremiah's face, and he coughed and spat and wiped at his face.

Throwing the dead man aside, Jeremiah saw Boone leaning against the dirt, rifle raised. The muzzle was smoking. Boone nodded, tipping his red beret. Smiling, Jeremiah returned the gesture.

Suddenly, Cass let out a yell, and flung herself against the shingle. "Cass!" Jeremiah was up and running towards her in an instant. He crouched in front of her, and looked her over. She had been shot through the shoulder. Lucky for her, there was an exit wound. Around them, the MIO kept the fire up.

Jeremiah grabbed Cass' arm at the elbow, and rotated it, checking to see if the bullet hit any bones. Cass groaned, but otherwise was not in too much pain. "You alright?" he asked. She looked at him, bit her tongue, and nodded. Jeremiah retrieved a stimpak from his pack, and injected it near the wound. After a while, she relaxed.

Now, Jeremiah turned to the others. "Cease fire!" he ordered. "Cease fire!"

After a few moments, the MIO fire halted. Recon, Boone, and Bryan looked at him confused. "We're not getting anywhere like this," he explained.

Boone stepped forward. "It's Legion..." he growled. Jeremiah held out his hand.

"I'll think of something."

"You better think fast."

Someone on the other side of the field yelled. "You have fought valiantly, and for that we salute you! If you refuse our conditions, you will be killed, but if you surrender the courier to us then we shall spare your lives!" Jeremiah's eyes narrowed. He knew the sound of that voice. Calm...a bit nasally...

Vulpes. Jeremiah sneered.

"It's me they want," Jeremiah announced. He took two steps up the shingle before Cass caught his arm. She pleaded at him with her eyes. When she spoke, he barely heard her.

"No...please..." she whispered.

Jeremiah placed a hand on her shoulder. "It's alright, I have this under control," He stepped over the crest of the shingle. Vulpes stood before him, only about five yards between them. The man from Gomorrah and five others went and held up the rest of the MIO. They all stood at gunpoint. The legionnaires ushered them out of the shingle, away from the cliffs, and behind Vulpes. He was smiling.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't the mailboy who doesn't know when to quit."

"Please, spare me your autocratic bullshit. What do you want?"

Vulpes smiled again. "You, of course. You have caused quite an inconvenience to my Lord's plans. He requests your presence in Flagstaff."

Jeremiah snorted. "And you think you'd just ask me? Attempt to kill me and my friends, and then fucking _ask _me?"

"Yes. Seeing as though you care for the, uh..._well-being _of your friends..." Vulpes glanced at Cass, whom Boone had under his arm. She held her shoulder. Behind them, Joshua, Ringo, and Angrenade arrived on the scene. Both Joshua and Ringo were carrying Captain Gorobets. The entirety of the MIO was now watching as Jeremiah faced down Vulpes, his Frumentarii, and a handful of legionnaires. Jeremiah wondered if this was the end.

"Now, lets not waste much more time. Come, Winters. Caesar awaits."

A slight breeze blew in from the west, heading east. Jeremiah turned, and looked at the cliff edge, only three yards away. He could cover that distance in three steps. Maybe. But what about his friends. Jeremiah made eye contact with Boone. He watched as Jeremiah moved his hand, just enough that Boone could see. he held up four fingers. Then three. Then two. Then one. He looked at Boone, and mouthed one word.

_Run. _

Turning on his heels, Jeremiah bolted for the cliff edge. He was sliding down the shingle in one step, at the edge in two, and launched himself forward. He sailed across open space, over the churning water below. He flailed his arms, and then was falling towards the water.

Cass and Boone watched, both with wide eyes, as he jumped. "No!" Cass shouted, tears building up in her eyes. She tried to break free, but Boone held her tight, turned and ran. Joshua and Ringo were already moving, Gorobets in their hands. Bryan stared open mouthed. He remained still, even as First Recon ran past him. Boone turned around.

"Bryan! Move, soldier!" Bryan wheeled and looked after them before setting off at a dead run. Angrenade began to run, and then raised his rifle as the legionnaires turned to fire on the retreating group. He fired one shot, which hit a legionnaire in the arm.

Vulpes, his face contorted in anger, turned as the legionnaires raised to fire. "Forget about them! It's _him _we want!" He led them to the cliff edge, and watched as Jeremiah hit the water. He ordered the legionnaires and Frumentarii to fire. At once, they opened up. The river was two hundred feet below, and most missed.

Cato, however, took his time. He peered down the sights of his repeater, taking deep breaths. Jeremiah's body was flowing down the river at a fast pace, caught in some rapids. Leading his target, he fired.

"I got him!" he shouted. "I shot the fucking courier!"

The group cheered, and Vulpes clapped him on the shoulder. "Very good, Cato. I will let Caesar know you took out the bastard. He will be pleased. And with their leader dead, no one can stop us now."

The group slowly made their way north, back to Boulder City, and then on to their safehouse.

Farther away, towards Novac, Boone still pulled Cass behind him. Her cries drowned out any other words the MIO had. Their thoughts were fixed on one thing: the image of Jeremiah plummeting over the cliff and to the Colorado below.


End file.
